


A Proper Farewell

by ASongofIceandHope



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Smut, but it's actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-10 15:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASongofIceandHope/pseuds/ASongofIceandHope
Summary: Sansa knows what happens to Stark men when they go south. So she's not going to let Jon leave her, possibly forever, without letting him know how she really feels about him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have jumped ship from Jonerys to Jonsa, I decided they needed a better farewell than the awkward hand-wave in 07x02. This is what I came up with. Enjoy!

Sansa tried to steady herself as she knocked on Jon’s door. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and the corridor was chilly despite the hot water that flowed through the walls. Compared to her bedchamber, which was once her mother’s, it was freezing. She heard the shuffle of feet on the other side of the door, and she realized that Jon hadn't even attempted to go to bed yet. It made sense; he was heading south the next morning and seven only knew if he would ever return to Winterfell. 

Which was why Sansa was there.

The door opened and he seemed surprised to see her, standing there in her dressing gown. He wasn't even dressed for bed; his trousers and shirt were still on, but he'd since discarded any other layers. 

“Sansa,” he greeted. “It… It’s late.” Jon moved out of her way and let her into his room. 

“I know,” she told him, looking around the room. It was so strange to see Jon living in the lord’s chambers. Not so long ago, they were father’s. “I… I wanted to say goodbye properly. Before you leave.” 

It had taken her a while to come to terms with her feelings for her brother. Ever since she had seen him at the Wall, her heart fluttered strangely every time she saw him. Her feelings for him were difficult to explain, and she had felt disgusted about them for a bit. If she loved Jon that way, was she no better than Cersei? The mere thought of being like the woman who had tormented her made her skin crawl. But eventually she decided that she would never be like Cersei Lannister, even if she fucked her own brother, and the odds of them all living to see the end of Winter were looking thinner and thinner every day so why live in fear of what other people would think?

“We’re not leaving so early, Sansa,” Jon chuckled. “What—“ 

Her lips were on his before he could even finish his sentence and his eyes fluttered shut. Jon kissed her back for a second, admiring how soft her lips were, before he pushed her away gently. 

“Sansa… what are you doing?” he asked. He wasn't necessarily complaining, per se, but he was surprised to say the least. 

“I'm not going to face the end of the world with regret,” Sansa murmured, grabbing his shirt and balling it up in her fists. “And… And leaving this world without letting you know how I really feel, Jon, would be a regret… Will you let me show you?”

Jon’s mouth went dry. What Sansa was saying… implying… he'd thought about it many times, laying in his bed all alone. 

“Y-Yes,” he managed. “Yes, Sansa, of… of course. But are you sure?”

She nodded. “I've never been more sure of anything in my life.” Her hands trembled as she reached for the sash of her dressing gown, slowly untying it and letting the robe slip from her shoulders and pool at her feet. 

Jon noted that Sansa’s body was very different from Ygritte’s. While Ygritte had been thin and wiry, Sansa had a noblewoman’s body, with soft curves and a tiny waist. 

“You… You… I…”

“Always so good with words,” Sansa teased as she approached him, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it upward so she could see him. Jon wondered how she would react to seeing his scars; he'd told her about the mutiny before, but he never would have shown Sansa the scars before. It wasn't decent. 

Her hands wandered upward until she grazed over the first scar. She froze, and Jon looked at her face to see if he could gauge how she was reacting. 

“Do… Do you want to see?” he asked softly. Sansa nodded, her hand still lingering on the lower-most mark that was parallel with his navel. Jon tugged his shirt off himself, and Sansa’s eyes widened. He would have felt like a freak, but as Sansa’s hands grazed over the gashes, he didn't feel embarrassed. Her concern, her gentleness, her love radiated through her touch. 

“Gods, Jon…” she sighed, before pressing a kiss to the scar right over his heart. 

“Let's not talk about it,” he told her, tilting her head up by placing his index finger under her chin. “Please.” Sansa nodded and pressed her lips against his, her arms wrapping around his neck as he slowly backed them toward the bed. 

Jon sat back on the edge of the bed and Sansa straddled him at his hips. She nipped at his bottom lip and Jon moaned against her mouth. His fingers tangled in her auburn hair, and he gently tugged her head back so he could attack her pale, slender neck. Sansa began to roll her hips against his, and her heart raced even faster when she could feel the bulge in his trousers. Until recently, she'd never even thought about touching a man. After living with Ramsay Bolton, she never wanted to see a man’s cock ever again, let alone have one inside of her. But Jon… Jon was different. He set a fire in the pit of her stomach hotter than anything Balerion the Black Dread could breathe. 

And that was why her fingers were soon tugging at the laces of his trousers, working them undone as quickly as she could. 

“Sansa…” Jon breathed. Her fingers moved so quickly and easily that he was surprised. 

She blushed and climbed off of him. 

“Strip,” she ordered, hoping her voice didn't betray her and reveal how nervous and excited she was. Jon got to his feet and did as he was told, tugging down his trousers and taking them off with a slight blush. He could feel her gaze locked on his erection, and he hoped she wasn't getting cold feet. “It… It’s bigger than Ramsay’s.” 

Jon had to bite back a snort of amusement. “I'm not surprised,” he chuckled. “Come here.” Sansa approached him, her eyes still fixed on his cock. Much to his surprise, she reached out and stroked it gently. Jon canted toward her touch, and she giggled. 

“That feels good, doesn't it?” she asked curiously. Jon nodded. Sansa looked back up at him and her eyes met his as she sunk to her knees and grasped his length more firmly.

“Sansa, you don't have to—“

“I want to,” she stated. Her voice was firm and didn't waver at all. Jon watched as her curious eyes seemed to examine his manhood as she tried to get a feel for what she was about to do. Following a deep breath, her tongue peeped out to lick her lips before it traveled up the underside of his length. Jon released a shaky breath that he didn't even realize he'd been holding, and murmured soft words of encouragement to her. 

But Sansa didn't need them. As soon as she'd licked and teased him, she took him into her mouth, her pouty pink lips wrapping perfectly around his cock. Jon wondered where in seven hells Sansa had learned such a thing, but he reminded himself that she had spent some time with Margaery Tyrell before she'd been taken from the capitol. He let her set the pace, even though every raw, carnal instinct in him was telling him to grab a fistful of her hair and fuck her mouth with wild abandon. Though he would never do that to Sansa. Not after what she'd been through. 

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon moaned as she swirled her tongue around the head of his member. One hand was wrapped around the base of his length, while the other tenderly kneaded his balls. He looked down and he could have sworn she was smirking. A small whine of protest escaped his lips when she pulled back and wiped the saliva from her mouth and chin. 

“You don't just have to stand there you know,” she told him.

“Sansa, I don't want to hurt—“

“You could never hurt me, Jon. That's why I just said that,” she explained. Jon nodded, and she began to suck him off again. He allowed himself to tangle his fingers in her hair, and he thrust forward steadily. It was amazing to see Sansa like that, and when she moaned slightly when his cock hit the back of her throat, he lost control. 

Sansa squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the dull ache that was simply growing with every thrust into her mouth. It was a great relief when she felt Jon’s seed splash the back of her throat in hot, thick spurts. She knew Jon would take good care of her for taking good care of him.

Jon helped her to her feet and picked her up, carrying her around to the side of the bed and laying her down. He climbed on top of her and kissed her, not caring that he could taste himself on her lips. His hands trailed over every inch of her body, exploring every dip and curve. He followed his hands with his mouth, pressing hot kisses down her neck, on her breasts, over her stomach, until he reached her mound. His hands had gripped her hips, and he admired the patch of curly red hair that grew in her most intimate of places. But his main objective was further south, and he let his hands explore there first. 

Sansa’s sex was hot and wet for him, and the sensation of Jon running a finger through her folds was enough to make her hips jolt upward. 

“You're going to like this, Sansa,” he grinned. 

“Going to like wha—Oh…!” she gasped when his tongue explored her instead. He seemed to focus on a sensitive little bud at the top of her folds, and when he licked and sucked at it Sansa saw stars. “Jon… Oh gods… Don't stop…” 

And he had no intention of stopping. Hearing her moan his name and feeling her writhe beneath him was too much fun. Sansa tasted tart, but also sweet, almost like the lemon cakes she loved so much. His cock was hard again, throbbing as if it demanded to be sheathed inside Sansa immediately. But Jon was going to let her have her pleasure before he really bedded her. 

Her moans and cries became louder and more high-pitched, and Jon didn't let up. He slid a finger inside her and was surprised to find her still tight. She responded positively to the slight penetration, and inserted another, curling them upward to try and find the sensitive spot he'd found on Ygritte. He must have, for Sansa nearly screamed and her climax came with a gush of clear liquid from inside her. Jon was almost taken aback; nothing like that had happened when he'd tasted Ygritte. But whatever it was, it had to be positive because Sansa looked as if she was in seventh heaven. Jon wiped off his face as best he could and climbed back on top of her.

“How…?” Sansa panted. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Jon smiled. Sansa blushed and reached down to touch his cock.

“I want you inside me.”

“Sansa, are you sure?” Jon felt foolish questioning her again and again, but he wanted to make sure she was comfortable. He didn't want her to regret doing anything with him. 

“Yes, Jon. I'm absolutely certain. And I want to look at you while you do it,” she replied. 

Jon took a deep breath and settled between her thighs as she spread her legs further for him. He teased her entrance with just the tip of his cock, and found her much more relaxed now that she had found her release once. Slowly, with his eyes on her, he eased his length inside her cunt, watching as Sansa took a deep breath and exhaled as soon as he was buried inside of her. The breath was airy and almost sounded like a moan, but Jon waited for her to give him permission to move.

“Please…” she begged. 

He started off steady; Jon didn't want to hurt her, and he wasn't sure if Ramsay had damaged her or something. But Sansa’s hips began to meet his thrusts eagerly, and before long she wrapped her legs around his hips, begging for him to fuck her.

“Harder…” she breathed heavily in his ear. “Jon, please…” He grunted in response and began to let all of his withheld emotions for her pour into their lovemaking. Jon was grateful that she'd gotten him to come once before, or else he was sure he'd spend inside her as soon as he felt her tighten around him if he hadn't. Her sweet pussy felt like it was made for him, like the sheath of a sword, and Jon proudly fucked her through her second orgasm or the night.

“Gods, you feel so good, Sansa…” he groaned. “Like… fuck… Like your perfect little cunt was made for my cock…” The filthy words would have made her recoil once, but hearing them from Jon’s lips made her arch and moan. 

She came at least once more before he finally did, spilling deep inside her without even thinking of the consequences. 

When she finally caught her breath, Sansa rose from the bed and recovered her long forgotten dressing gown. She slipped it back on and returned to the bed, kissing Jon firmly on the lips. He cupped her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin. 

“You come back to me, Jon Snow,” she murmured.

“I will. I swear it.” 

Sansa smiled sadly. “Don't make promises you can't keep.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is mining dragonglass on Dragonstone when he hears from Sansa. He decides that he must return to Winterfell as soon as possible, and must try to reason with Daenerys so he can take his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I was so flattered by all your kudos, bookmarks, and comments! That definitely made this an easy chapter to churn out!
> 
> This fic, of course, is semi-season 7 compliant. It's AU, but it's been created based on some plot points of that season.
> 
> I think everyone can guess what Sansa has written to Jon about, but enjoy! :)

_Two Months Later_

Jon was observing the mining of dragonglass when Ser Davos approached him, carrying a small roll of parchment. He had tried his best to be productive after Daenerys Targaryen granted him permission to mine obsidian for the war against the Others. But he kept thinking about Sansa, back at Winterfell with Petyr Baelish creeping around. He also thought about her farewell to him, and he felt his heart pound slightly at the memory. 

“A raven, your grace,” he told him. “From Winterfell.” Jon perked up instantly, and took it, breaking the seal and unrolling the message.

_Jon,_

_I hope my message finds you in good health. We continue to gather supplies for the winter and prepare the North for the wars to come. However, I write to you because there are two matters of concern that I must address._

_First, Bran and Arya are both home. Bran has stories, he knows things that he should not, yet he does. It is strange. And he claims he must speak with you, Jon, about something of great importance. Something that he will not speak to me about._

_Second, I have not bled for two moons now. The maester and Lady Brienne are aware of this fact, but they do not know that it is your seed which has quickened inside of me. The maester suspects Lord Baelish, while Brienne has begun to suspect you, though she would never voice such suspicion aloud. You and I both heard Old Nan’s stories about mothers and their children in the Long Night. We must make a decision. The maester says I do not have much time before moon tea would be ineffective to force a miscarriage, and I need to hear from you. It is the best I can do, since I know having you here with me is impossible. Whatever you choose, I will do without hesitation, but you must know that I would carry our child regardless of the risks._

_Yours,_   
_Sansa_

_P.S._   
_Petyr Baelish is no longer a problem of ours._

Jon thought he was going to be sick, but also felt overjoyed. On the one hand, he hated himself. He'd impregnated his little sister, and if their incestuous sheets weren't enough of a crime, the babe that grew inside her womb would be a bastard. Long ago, Jon had swore he'd never father a bastard of his own. It's no way for a child to grow up. But to make matters worse, she was with child in winter. A summer pregnancy was dangerous enough; Jon knew what tales Sansa had alluded to when she referenced Old Nan. Mothers had smothered their infants in their cribs, rather than listen to their starving wails, and their tears froze on their cheeks. 

But another part of him, a terrible, selfish part of him, was delighted. Jon had seen Lady Stark heavy with child before, with Arya, Bran, and Rickon, and Catelyn Stark had always carried well. She always had that maternal glow about her when her belly began to round, and Jon could imagine Sansa with the same radiance. Sansa’s belly was likely taut and perhaps a bit bloated, but it wouldn't begin to round for a few months. 

“What is it, your grace?” Davos inquired. Jon realized that he hadn't spoken for a while, and his advisor was likely wondering what news came from Winterfell.

“All is well,” Jon replied, rolling up the parchment and tucking it somewhere safe. “But I need to return. Sansa needs me, Ser Davos.” The older man nodded, but he frowned slightly. Even though Daenerys Targaryen had never expressed it in words, he and Jon were practically prisoners on Dragonstone. 

“I would take that up with the Dragon Queen,” he stated. 

Jon grimaced. He and Daenerys Targaryen had yet to see eye-to-eye on any issue. She was still fixated on her birthright and the Iron Throne; it was as if she thought by giving Jon what he wanted that he would go fight the army of the dead for her so she could deal with Cersei. He'd tried to reason with her time and time again, but no matter how close he got to convincing her of the imminent danger to the North, she always managed to pivot back to the Iron Throne. Once, he almost yelled, “bugger the Iron Throne!” but he didn't want to get burned alive by her dragons. That was the one thing that Jon worried about. 

“I suppose I must,” he sighed. “Best get this over and done with.”

But Jon put off the meeting until well into the evening. He knew Daenerys would be in her chambers, and cautiously knocked thrice before being admitted. She was sitting at a table, nursing a glass of wine. She seemed surprised to see him, and Jon wasn't surprised by that in the least.

“Lord Snow,” she greeted, still refusing to call him by his current title. Her name for him reminded him of the mocking he was subjected to by Thorne and others at the Wall. 

“Your grace,” he stated tensely. 

Daenerys set down her glass and looked at him coyly. Jon felt his lips quirk downward into a frown. He was not a green boy; he knew what a woman looked like when she was trying to appeal to a man. “You must need something, or else you would not have come to my chambers,” she acknowledged. 

“Aye, but not what you think I need,” he grumbled. “You're not used to men not being madly in love with you, are you, your grace?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She got to her feet and strolled toward him in a predatory manner. Jon grit his teeth, and steeled his resolve. “I need to be allowed leave to return to Winterfell,” he explained. “My lady sister needs me home.” Jon thought of Sansa in the cold of the North, becoming a slow-moving target as her belly swelled. “And, with your permission, I… I would bring her south.” If Bran and Arya were home, they could manage until Jon could return to Winterfell more permanently.

“And why must your lady sister come south?” Daenerys questioned. “I can’t imagine it is to be reunited with her husband.”

Jon chuckled. “No, it’s not,” he agreed. “Sansa… Sansa is with child, your grace. And it is dangerous for her to be in the North with the threat that is looming over us. A more temperate climate would be better for her. And Dragonstone would provide protect—“

“Who is the father?” Daenerys interrupted.

“What?”

“Who is the father, Jon Snow?”

He looked her in the eye and he could tell she was suspicious. But what right did a girl whose own parents were brother and sister have to judge him for his love for Sansa? 

“I am,” he answered firmly. “And before you get on your high horse, your grace, need I remind you of—“

“My parents?” she finished for him. “You need not. And if you don’t mind me saying, I believe two-thirds of their offspring turned out rather functional. I will not judge you, Jon Snow. And Lady Sansa is more than welcome at Dragonstone if you believe this to be the safest place for her.” And she was curious about the girl that could make the noble Ned Stark’s son forget all the taboos of Westeros and lay with his sister.

“Are you giving me leave of this place?” Jon questioned, just to be sure. One could never be too careful when dealing with a Targaryen.

“Yes, Jon Snow,” Daenerys replied. “You may leave. But I expect you to return as quickly as you can. If providence has brought me to Westeros, then providence has also brought you here, Jon Snow. And you still have a role to play here, whether you like it or not.” Jon said nothing and left without bothering to wait for her to dismiss him. 

He was on a ship heading north the next morning. 

Davos accompanied him, and watched him knowingly as he brooded on deck. Jon turned to him and he smiled slightly. “You love her, don't you?” he asked. “Sansa, I mean.”

“I don't have time for such things,” he lied.

“You're a terrible liar, your grace,” Davos stated. “I look at this way, your grace; many of the Targaryens ended up terrible because of their… incest. But they also produced some of the greatest kings we have ever seen. Jaehaerys I, Daeron II, Aegon the Unlikely…” Jon could only think of the Mad King, and the little shit that Joffrey Baratheon was. Still, Myrcella and Tommen had been good children. 

“You're right,” Jon agreed. “But winter is no time to have a child.” 

“Perhaps in Winterfell,” Davos said. “But if Daenerys has allowed Sansa to come south, to Dragonstone, then she will be much safer there.” 

Part of Jon agreed with that, but another part of him didn't trust Daenerys Targaryen. She could see Sansa as competition, and seven knew what the Dragon Queen would try and do to her. And Jon had no idea how Sansa would react to her. He doubted that Sansa would be intimidated by her, but she would probably see Daenerys’ fledgling interest in him. 

“I'm sure everything will work out, regardless,” Davos muttered when he saw Jon’s mind had wandered yet again.

*****

“Lady Sansa, are you sure there isn't anything I can get for you?” Brienne inquired as she stood just behind the lady she was addressing. Sansa was retching into an empty chamber pot, and her whole body shook as she did so. “Did your mother get sick like this when she was with child, my lady?” Sansa shook her head and sat back on her heels, wiping the bile from her chin. It was getting difficult to hold anything down. 

“My mother never got this sick,” she sighed. Her stomach lurched again and she cursed; there was nothing left inside her to throw up! “If you could get something from the maester? Anything?” Sansa gagged again and bent over the chamber pot, her body trembling as she did.

Brienne left and the door shut behind her. It opened again and she turned to find Bran in his new wheelchair; he rolled in and watched her curiously.

“She was sick like that,” he stated cryptically.

“Who?” Sansa asked. 

Bran turned his head to the side and he simply observed a bit more. “You'll know soon enough,” he told her. “Jon is on his way home.” Sansa perked up and Bran managed a ghost of a smile. “He is the father, isn't he, Sansa?” She looked down immediately, but was comforted by another familiar figure slipping into her room. Ghost curled up beside her, resting his snout on her belly as if he knew that Jon’s baby was in there. Perhaps he did. Jon and Ghost had an extremely strong bond. 

“Hello, Ghost,” she smiled, scratching him behind the ears. When she looked back up, Bran was gone. He tended to slip here and there, telling her of strange things that Sansa wasn't sure were yet to come or have already passed. She didn't really know how it all worked. 

“My lady,” Brienne said upon returning. “The maester is brewing peppermint tea for you. He believes it will calm your stomach.” 

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa smiled as she slowly got to her feet. Even though her morning sickness made some things completely unbearable, Sansa still tried to make her rounds every day to check on the men and see how the training was progressing and whatnot. Brienne helped her up, and grasped her arm as she made her way out of her rooms. Arya spotted them and rushed forward.

“I've got her,” she declared. Sansa smiled at her sister and nodded to Brienne. 

The two strolled along the ramparts together, and Arya chatted with every soldier they passed. Arya was much better at talking to them than Sansa; she was like Jon in that regard. Sansa could give orders and negotiate with lords, but Arya and Jon could speak to the men who fought for them and inspire them through camaraderie. Littlefinger had been right when he said that men would fight for her, the trueborn daughter of Catelyn and Ned Stark, but it was Jon and Arya who kept them around long after the fighting was over.

“How are you feeling?” Arya asked. 

“Better,” Sansa replied. “I think I needed some fresh air.” Arya nodded and Sansa smiled at her sister, who was still as wild as the wolves but had grown to be a very pretty young woman. 

“Jon should be on his way,” she remarked. “It will be nice to see him again.”

Sansa had to keep her increasingly irrational pregnant brain in check; she knew Arya meant nothing by what she had said, but a bit of jealousy bloomed in her. Arya and Jon had always had a strong relationship when they were children; they'd been the only ones with the Stark look out of their father’s children. 

“Yes. He and I have much to discuss,” Sansa hummed. Arya’s gaze flitted to her sister’s abdomen for a moment. 

“I'm sure you do,” Arya agreed. 

Why Sansa thought she could play games with her, Arya didn't understand. It was clear that Sansa had developed feelings for Jon, romantic feelings, and her daily sickness couldn't be from bad food or drink. Arya had many memories of their mother when she was pregnant with Rickon and when he was born, and she knew what morning sickness looked like. Sansa had it, but in the extreme. 

“Let's return to my chambers,” Sansa decided after one round of walking. She was beginning to feel tired and a bit dizzy too. Arya obliged her, and Sansa was greeted with a steaming cup of peppermint tea when she returned.

“Try and drink it every morning, or even with every meal,” the maester recommended. 

Sansa thanked him and sipped quietly, with Ghost laying at her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa. Also, I hate what they've done to Bran on the show but I also like using him to say cryptic things so... I guess I'm no better than D&D (but I do ship Jonsa so I guess I am a bit better lol).
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos/comments!
> 
> P.S.  
> I have two more chapters done after this one, and am working on chapter 5.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not all smooth sailing to return to Winterfell, and the journey takes twice as long as Jon expected. When he returns, Bran has important information that he must share with him. Sansa thinks about promises made a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I am overwhelmed and so appreciative of all the love this fic has gotten; none of my friends really ship Jonsa so this is my one outlet outside of my tumblr (letjonsnownap) where I can let this all out. So a big thank you to all of you!
> 
> I currently am working on what would be the ninth chapter of this fic; I really don't know how long it will be and I have already put in a major plot twist for Jon (well, like, two by now).

_Three Months Later_

Sansa sat up slowly in bed, her hand resting on stomach which was beginning to round. The babe moved inside her and she smiled; it was a little comfort as she waited for Jon to return. Supposedly the seas were wild, and travel was difficult. But Jon was on his way home, and it filled her heart with relief. The Starks were safer, better, when they were all together. They never should have separated all those years ago. 

Her handmaidens came to her chambers and helped her dress for the day. Sansa had given up on trying to hide her bump; it was already quite cumbersome and she couldn't imagine how it would be when it was time for her to give birth. 

“You are glowing, my lady,” one of them complimented. “The babe must be healthy.”

Sansa smiled and rested her hands atop the bump. “Thank you,” she returned. “I pray they will be as strong as their father.” No one really knew that it was Jon, beyond Bran, Arya, and Brienne. It was basically a family secret. 

Arya arrived moments later to walk Sansa through her rounds. The maester had recommended for her to get light exercise every day, and to try and keep up her earlier routines. Everything the maester recommended she do to stay healthy and to keep the babe healthy she did. She was determined to give her child a fighting chance, since it had to be born in winter. 

“What do you think Jon thinks of the Dragon Queen?” Arya inquired when they were somewhat alone. 

“I'm sure he finds her pretty. All that silver hair…” Sansa sighed.

It was something that had kept her up at night. What if Jon had fallen in love with Daenerys Targaryen? Rumor had it that no man could resist her. Sansa tried to calm herself with the thought that Jon Snow was “no man.” He'd come back from the dead, after all! But Daenerys Targaryen was the Mother of Dragons. She was no mere woman either. 

“I'm sure he still loves you, Sansa,” Arya remarked. She could see that Sansa was nervous about Jon’s return. All Sansa could do was nod, but her countenance brightened when a soldier came and told her that riders were spotted coming from the direction of White Harbor. 

Arya walked with her down to the courtyard, and they were waiting there when Jon and Davos entered. Jon swung down from his mount and strode over to her quickly, taking her into his arms. 

“Sansa,” he sighed. The babe in her womb gave a flutter of kicks, and her smile widened. 

“Jon,” she grinned. It was taking every ounce of restraint not to kiss him right there in front of all of his men, but she kept up propriety for propriety’s sake. He greeted Arya next with a hug that was warm but not nearly as affectionate as the one he gave her. Then his attention turned to Bran.

“I have much to tell you,” Bran stated. “If we could speak privately?”

“Bran, we all have a right to know if something you've… seen… concerns Jon,” Arya argued. 

“Very well. The godswood, then.”

The four of them all made their way to the weirwood tree and sat among its roots. Bran looked long and hard at Jon for a moment, and Sansa grasped his hand. 

“I don't think there is really a better way to say this,” Bran began, “so I'm just going to say it. Jon, your father… he isn't Ned Stark. It isn't a coincidence that he returned from the south with a babe-in-arms and his dead sister’s body. Contrary to what Robert Baratheon would have liked us all to believe, Lyanna Stark didn't die because Rhaegar killed her. He didn't even rape her. Lyanna Stark died in childbirth.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

“How do you know this?” Arya demanded. “I want to see.” 

“You can't see because you don't have the sight,” Bran told her calmly. “But two ravens will be coming in a matter of days that will confirm what I have told you. The first from Samwell Tarly, who will find Rhaegar and Lyanna’s hastily written marriage certificate. You'll find Rhaegar’s hand resembles your own, Jon. The second from Howland Reed, the only living person who was there at the Tower of Joy.” 

“Besides Jon,” Arya added.

“Besides Jon,” he agreed.

All three of the Stark siblings looked at Jon. He was silent, staring at the hand that clasped Sansa’s. On the one hand, it was good news; he was not a filthy monster who had impregnated his own sister. Sansa was his cousin. It was acceptable in Westeros to lay with your own cousin. But on the other, he was… horrified. Everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie. His father, who was actually his uncle, had lied for nearly seventeen years to protect him because his own best friend would have had both their heads if the truth had ever come out. His mother… he finally knew her name. His mother had been Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, the she-wolf. The woman that Robert Baratheon had gone to war for. 

“It… It’s a lot to take in,” he admitted. “Bran… what does all of this really mean?”

“It means that you do have a claim to the Iron Throne,” Bran replied. “Of course, none of that matters now. But you have a stronger claim than Daenerys Targaryen. It also means… that you need to know your birth name.”

“Seven hells,” Arya muttered. “Well, no matter what stupid Targaryen name Rhaegar chose for you, you're still Jon to me.” Jon and Sansa both smiled at her, and Sansa rested her head on Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon looked wearily at Bran. “I suppose you better tell me and get it over with.”

“Jaehaerys,” he informed. “Jaehaerys Targaryen. And Rhaegar didn't choose the name. Aunt Lyanna did; Jaehaerys I was the most respected Targaryen king in all of Westeros, the North included. And Jaehaerys II was Rhaegar’s grandfather.”

Sansa tried to look at Jon and think of his real name, but it didn't connect. It didn't fit him at all. He was Jon Snow to her. But it made her feel a bit better carrying his child now that she knew they were cousins. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and Jon smiled slightly, his lips quirking up in a small grin. Bran looked back and forth between the two knowingly.

“You should marry before you return to Daenerys Targaryen,” he suggested. “She believes you and she are Ice and Fire. But the thought is incorrect. Ice and Fire united many years ago.”

Jon turned to Sansa. “Do you want to get married?”

“What is the saying? ‘The third time’s the charm?’” Sansa chuckled. “Yes, I want to marry you, Jon Snow.” 

After a little more discussion, the siblings agreed to meet in the godswood that night with Ser Davos and Lady Brienne so Jon and Sansa could be joined properly. Sansa returned to her chamber and rifled through her drawers, trying to find her collection of sewing needles. It was an unusual tradition in Westeros to exchange rings for a wedding, but she wanted Jon to have a more solid token of her affection. When she had gathered a handful of her best sewing needles, she went down to the blacksmith.

“Can you melt these down and forge a ring?” she asked him, dumping the needles down onto the work table. The blacksmith chuckled at her and she frowned. “Please? Now?”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied. “It won't take long at all. I imagine it is not for you?”

“For our king,” she explained. He nodded and didn't ask questions and went to work. It didn't take long for him to fashion a simple band out of her sewing needles, and Sansa thanked him for his quick work. Sansa pocketed the ring and returned her chambers. 

Little did she know, Jon went to the smithy just moments after she left with the hilt of a dagger. It was a fine piece, with rubies inlaid in it. Jon had managed to win it off its owner just minutes before; the young man from the Eyrie had been foolish enough to claim he could get a hit on him, and had wagered his fine knife for it. The boy had lost, and Jon saw the hilt as gaudy, but its silver and the rubies inlaid in it would make a fine ring for Sansa. He wanted her to have something to remind her of him at all times. 

The smith worked much harder on her ring than he had on his. It was a delicate ring, with the best-cut of the rubies in the center. The gem made Jon think of Sansa’s hair. 

That night came too quickly for the both of them. Ser Davos came and fetched her from her chamber, and Sansa pressed a hand to her belly as she took his arm. She could remember another night in the godswood of Winterfell, another wedding, and it made her uneasy. But Jon was not Ramsay Bolton. 

Her mind went to the words her father had once said to her when she had been whining about wanting to marry Joffrey all those years ago. He'd told her that he'd find her someone brave and gentle and strong; someone worthy of her. 

Sansa was sure he'd agree that Jon fit those qualifications perfectly. 

The godswood was lit with candles, and Jon stood just before the weirwood tree, his great cloak making him seem older and bigger than he really was. He had a new cloak in his hands; it was plain black and had the sigil of House Targaryen stitched in red thread. Sansa wondered who had made it for him on such short notice, but the closer she got the more she realized how poor the needlework was and she smiled. Arya, of course. 

Jon took a deep breath and spoke the words that began a northern wedding. “Who comes? Who comes before the gods?” he inquired, smiling slightly at Sansa.

Davos plucked up like he usually did before he had to speak formally. “Lady Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed,” he replied. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” Sansa felt her heart swell and her eyes water as Jon stepped forward slightly. 

“Me, Jaehaerys of Houses Stark and Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone and Lady Lyanna of Winterfell,” he paused ever so slightly, thinking of the long chain of titles that Daenerys’ translator had rattled off in front of him, and realized he had just as many now. It made him feel sick, but it was the proper way. He wanted everything to be proper for Sansa. “Third of My Name, King in the North, Rightful King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth,” Davos replied, “advisor to Lady Sansa’s cousin.” He turned to her and Sansa knew what was coming next. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?”

Sansa licked her lips nervously. “I take this man.”

She reached out for Jon’s outstretched hand and they knelt beneath the heart tree. Sansa hadn't prayed to the gods in so long, but she found she was full of prayers as she knelt beside Jon. She prayed that they would protect him as he fought in the wars to come, that their child would be healthy and make it through the winter, and that they would be safe when Daenerys found out the truth of Jon’s birth. 

After a moment or so of prayer they rose to their feet again and Jon removed her cloak and replaced it with the hastily made marriage cloak. Arya hugged them both, and Bran smiled knowingly as Jon took Sansa back to the lord’s bedchamber.

“I will never speak all those monstrous titles ever again,” he grumbled as they dressed for bed.

“You don't have to,” Sansa agreed with him that they were awful. “Not here, when you're with me.” She held the ring she'd had made in her right hand and grabbed his left. “I had something made for you. For a wedding gift, of sorts.” 

“I had something made for you as well,” Jon stated. He showed her the ring and Sansa admired it. “I think people wear these on their left hands. When they have them.” 

Sansa let him slip it onto her left ring finger, and then she showed him the simple band she'd had made for him. “It's not as nice as yours, sadly. I… I had the smith melt down all my sewing needles so I could have something to give you,” she blushed. 

“I don't need something fancy,” Jon told her as she slipped it onto his ring finger. 

A heavy silence hung between them for a moment. The only sound was the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, and Sansa turned to look at it. She grabbed the furs from the bed and put them on the floor, slipping off her nightgown before settling on them and looking at him expectantly. 

Jon undressed and joined her, while the fire burned even brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, in the States that is what we call a shotgun wedding! Lol. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to hearing from you all!
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos/comments or bookmark!
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon receives the first message promised by Bran. He has to own up to something to Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is smut in this chapter, you've been warned! ;)
> 
> Also, again, so thankful for all the love y'all. Keep it coming!

Jon woke the next morning to Sansa nuzzling his chest with her face. The early morning sun shone on her face, and her hair was mussed. She was half-awake, and he decided he'd let her drift back off to sleep. Ghost was curled up at the foot of the bed, his red eyes watching the two curiously. He'd slipped in sometime during the night when Jon and Sansa had finished their lovemaking. It had been even better than the first time, somehow, because they both were more comfortable and knew what the other liked. Sansa had sucked him off so well the night before that Jon was fairly sure his eyes had rolled back into his skull.

A knock on the door made Sansa stir, and he kissed her forehead. “Rest,” he murmured. “I've got the door.” Sansa mumbled something back and plopped back down among the pillows with a little snore. Jon climbed out of bed and pulled on his dressing robe. Ghost watched him as he opened the door. 

“A raven, your grace,” Ser Davos declared. “From the Citadel.” Jon accepted the parchment and unrolled it, reading Samwell’s handwriting, and then turning to the other piece of parchment he had rolled up with it.

_Jon,_

_I've enclosed something I have found in the Citadel that may affect the outcome of the wars to come. I've sent the original along as the maesters had it in a pile of rotting manuscripts and would not know it’s missing._

_You can read it for yourself, but I think it has something to do with you. I don't know why, exactly, but I have a feeling._

_Sam_

The “something” Sam had referred to was indeed a hastily written marriage certificate between his mother and father, with none other than Ser Arthur Dayne signing as a witness. The parchment was stained, but each signature was clear, and Jon was surprised that Rhaegar Targaryen’s hand somewhat matched his own, just as Bran had said. Jon realized that Bran did indeed have the capabilities of a greenseer, and had seen the certificate when it was signed, but also Sam finding it later. Jon needed to put the parchment somewhere safe, so he tucked it away deep in a drawer. He'd find a more permanent place for it later. 

“Your friend Sam?” Sansa guessed, still sleepy. She sat up and rubbed her belly tenderly. 

“Yes,” Jon confirmed. “Bran was right.” 

“Well come back to bed,” she murmured. “I'm not quite done with you, Jon.” Jon grinned and climbed into bed, capturing her lips with his. They kissed and touched for a while and Jon went to settle in between her thighs when Sansa grabbed him by the bicep. “I want to be on top.”

“O-Oh,” Jon blushed. “Alright.” He rolled off of her and laid back on the bed. Sansa straddled him at the hips and gently grasped his cock, stroking him. It didn't take very long for him to harden in her hand, and Sansa slowly rubbed the head between her folds, letting it get coated in her wetness. Jon couldn't peel his eyes away from the woman on top of him; Sansa was beautiful in every way but she was radiant when she was in charge. 

Cautiously, she eased herself down onto his length, taking every inch of him inside her sex. Sansa sighed blissfully, and started to roll her hips, riding him. One hand rested on his chest to steady herself, while the other dropped to her clit, rubbing the swollen bud as his cock brushed an equally sensitive spot inside of her. 

“Oh…” Sansa moaned, throwing her head back as she did so. “Oh gods… Jon… Jon, touch me…” 

He was immediately pulled from his trance of watching her ride his cock and sat up, his hands immediately cupping her breasts while his lips attacked her collarbone. Sansa whimpered blissfully, and she moaned low in her throat as her release neared. Her fingers at her clit rubbed desperately, and she cried out, her body trembling as she reached her climax. 

Jon groaned as she climbed off of him, and watched as she settled on her hands and knees. He knew, from what she had told him of her time with Ramsay, that the Bolton bastard had liked bending her over the bed and taking her from behind. 

“Sansa, I don't—“

“It's nothing like what he did to me,” she told him. She crawled over and kissed him. “We’re wolves, Jon. Take me like one.” Jon managed a small smile for her and kissed her back. 

“Is that really what you want?” he asked.

“Yes!” Sansa whined. “Now get on your knees and fuck me, Jon Snow!” He got behind her, as she demanded, and quickly eased his cock back inside of her. Sansa arched her back and pressed back against him almost immediately, groaning aloud. The sound that escaped her lips enthralled Jon, and he began to thrust steadily into her. 

He didn't think he'd ever tire of hearing her sobs of pleasure. 

“Jon… Oh gods… yes!” Sansa cried, feeling her cunt tighten around his length as she came once more. He grunted and gripped her hips tighter, slamming into her as she screamed in delight. His hips stuttered, and Jon began to feel his own release approach. Jon dropped one hand down to her clit, circling it with his thumb and bringing her to orgasm once more before he came. Sansa sighed at the familiar feeling of his seed inside her, and as soon as he pulled out of her she settled back down on the mattress on her side. 

Jon climbed out of bed and began to get dressed; he had to go meet with the lords of the North and they would all be suspicious if he was late. Watching Sansa lounge on their bed, sated and a bit sleepy, brought a smile to his face. 

And then the fact that he hadn't told her about his plan to take her south hit him. 

“When I return from the meeting, I have something that I need to discuss with you,” he told her. Sansa turned to look at him and grinned. He felt bad that she seemed excited about whatever he had to tell her, considering she was certain to be displeased. 

“Hurry back to me, Jon Snow. I don't know how long I can go with you you in my bed,” she laughed. It felt good to hear her laugh again.

The meeting with the lords of the North went as expected; they all expressed their strong dislike and distrust of Daenerys Targaryen, and were grateful that Jon had come to his senses and returned to his rightful place. Jon wondered all the while how they would react to the reality that he was not the bastard of Ned Stark—the only reason they had seen him fit to be King in the North—but a trueborn Targaryen, the son of the man who had purportedly kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark. 

“I will be returning south, my lords,” he informed them after all their comments had been made known. “And Lady Sansa will be traveling with me.”

“Why, your grace?” Lyanna Mormont questioned, her little voice full of frustration.

Jon shifted awkwardly from side to side. “Because we've all heard the stories of what happens to newborns in the winter,” he stated firmly. “If she goes south now, she and her babe may have a fighting chance.” Yohn Royce shook his head and rose to his feet. Jon had an idea as to what he would say; most of his men thought Sansa was carrying Petyr Baelish’s bastard. 

“All due respect, your grace, but the babe is a bastard. Littlefinger’s bastard, no less. If it were trueborn, I'd say give it a chance, but—“

“Must I remind you, Lord Royce, that I myself am a bastard? Or have you forgotten my name?”

The older man seemed taken aback by Jon’s interruption. Usually Jon listened to whatever he had to say, but Jon was letting his emotions betray him a bit. “Of course not, your grace,” Lord Royce replied. “But your father was a great man. Littlefinger was not a great man. And Lady Sansa has disparaged her family’s good name by laying with him.” 

“Have any of you given any thought that Baelish may not be the father?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“Your grace?” a few of the lords, Royce included, questioned. 

“The child Lady Sansa carries is not a bastard,” Jon declared, looking down at his boots. He knew the lords would erupt into various responses when he told them the truth, but it was something he was willing to face if it guaranteed Sansa and his unborn child’s safety. “He's a Star—“

“A Targaryen.” Jon looked up to the end of the hall and saw Sansa standing there. “As his father is. But the babe is also a Stark, and you will respect your king's wishes for the safety of myself and the child because of that.” She strode toward Jon determinedly. 

“Pardon, my lady, but how is your babe a Targaryen? The last Targaryen male—“

“Is me,” Jon finished, taking a deep breath and searching for Sansa’s hand. “My father was not Eddard Stark. His blood does not run through my veins. But another Stark’s does. His sister, Lyanna. She married Prince Rhaegar in secret, my lords, and he sired me. The wedding certificate is in my possession, and Lord Howland Reed can attest to what I have told you here.”

The lords all murmured amongst themselves. It was Lyanna Mormont who spoke first.

“I have no reason not to believe you, your grace,” she told him. “I was named for your mother, and the older lords say she was as wild as the North itself. If Lyanna Stark’s blood runs through your veins, then you are a Stark. We do not like the Targaryens, your grace. Rhaegar possibly most of all. But if his intent for Lady Lyanna was true… then House Mormont will stand with you and Lady Sansa.” This caused another eruption of murmurs from the lords of the North. 

Lord Glover spoke next. “The Lady Mormont is right,” he sighed. “And if you have done right by Lord Stark and Lady Stark’s daughter, your cousin, then… then House Glover will not break faith today.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Jon nodded to him. 

“I will travel south with my husband,” Sansa declared. Her voice was strong and regal; everything a queen’s voice ought to be. “We will parlay with the Dragon Queen. With any luck, these new revelations will make her join our cause for the sake of the preservation of her house.” She placed a hand on her belly, gently rubbing a spot where the babe had just kicked. “With the combined forces of Daenerys’ dragons and the fighting men of the north, our child will likely live and inherit a world better than the one Jon and I have inherited.” 

Jon turned to her and looked at her, his eyes shining with affection. Sansa met his gaze and took his hand—the hand that donned his ring from her—and placed it over the spot she had been touching. He was rewarded with a little nudge, and his eyes lit up.

The lords took this as their cue to leave, letting the two have a moment alone.

“Should have told me as soon as you returned,” Sansa murmured. 

“I know,” Jon sighed. “I should have.” 

Sansa reached up and cupped his cheek with her free hand, pulling him in for a sweet and tender kiss. Jon pulled her close, as close as her growing belly would allow, that is, and quickly deepened the kiss. When they finally separated, Sansa sighed and Jon walked with her out of the great hall. She was finding that she was starting to get a bit of the pregnant “waddle” and it frustrated her. 

“Do you trust her, Jon?” she inquired. 

“Who, Daenerys?” he asked. Sansa nodded. “I'm not sure. Not really. She… She is focused on taking the Iron Throne from Cersei. That is her main purpose for coming here. And she has demanded I bend the knee if I want her help with the Others.”

“So she's like Cersei,” Sansa surmised. Jon never would have said such a thing, but he could see how Sansa could think that.

“Perhaps. I think I have seen moments of madness from her,” Jon admitted. “But she is probably better than Cersei.” Sansa scoffed as they mounted the ramparts so she could take her daily walk. 

“It's not very hard to be better than Cersei.”

Jon didn't have any argument for that, so he said nothing. “Will we be able to spare a cart or wheelhouse so you can travel comfortably?” he inquired. “Clearly you can't ride.” 

“We can spare a cart,” Sansa answered. “But I want you to promise me, Jon Snow, that you won't treat me like a cripple just because I am with child.” Jon nodded, a blush appearing on his cheeks as he did so. 

“As you wish, Sansa,” he kissed her cheek and they continued to walk about the ramparts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sansa and Daenerys are going to be meeting at some point. That will go over well. Not. 
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos and comments! And always bookmark your smut ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen in the North meets The Dragon Queen. Things don't go as planned. Truths are learned, consequences doled out, and surprises abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the first big plot twist in my story, which I will reveal my reasoning behind it in my other note at the end of this chapter. Also, enjoy the cute little bit of domestic Jonsa that I snuck in here. 
> 
> Also, if you love Daenerys, I apologize for her this chapter. I have loved her for a long time, but the direction she's taking for season 7 is disagreeable at best.

Whatever Jon had been expecting when Daenerys and Sansa finally met, their first interaction had not been at all like what he had expected. On the one hand, he'd expected an absolute nightmare where they both squared off and tried not to strangle each other. On the other, he'd hoped that Daenerys would be welcoming and admire Sansa’s round belly and glow, and that Sansa would have a woman friend in Daenerys. 

The reality was closer to the former than the latter. 

Sansa waddled her way into the throne room of Dragonstone on Jon’s arm. She didn't feel terribly intimidated by the silver-haired young woman on the throne; Sansa had seen her fair share of people on thrones, and they didn't inspire much of anything in her. 

“Lady Sansa,” the woman greeted. “Welcome to Dragonstone. I am—“

“I know who you are,” Sansa sighed. “Daenerys Stormborn. The Unburnt and whatnot. Now, your grace, Jon and I are very tired and I need to rest.” The blonde tilted her head to the side curiously and rose from her seat, making her way down to where Sansa and Jon stood. Her eyes were filled with mixed emotions, and Sansa could see her dislike of her. 

“Do all women of the north speak to their superiors in such a way?” Daenerys directed her question to Jon and not her. 

“I think you'd find Lady Sansa to be nothing in comparison to others,” he answered.

Daenerys raised a well-groomed brow and Sansa mirrored her expression, resting her hands on her belly. The Dragon Queen looked at the swell of her stomach and her lips sunk into a bit of a frown. “May I?” she raised a hand toward her bump. “I was with child once upon a time. It is strange to feel them move.” Sansa looked at Jon hesitantly before looking back at Daenerys and nodding. She placed a hand on her belly and the babe kicked in response. “Oh yes. A strong little one. Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“I haven't given it much thought,” Sansa admitted. “But I suppose it's every young woman’s wish to bear a son for a first child. I don't really care though, as long as they're healthy.”

“And the fact that the child will be a bastard does not alarm you? You, a young woman raised to marry the lord of a great house and bear noble, trueborn children?” Daenerys inquired. Sansa shook her head, and gave Jon a knowing look. Sansa would not say the truth to Daenerys Targaryen; that was Jon’s job. He planned on speaking to her about it sometime that evening, after he and Sansa had rested and they had all dined together. 

“Not at all,” Sansa replied stiffly. “I'm honored to carry Jon’s child. Besides, your house married brother and sister for centuries. Surely you're not judging us for our actions?” 

“Of course not,” Daenerys replied, but her mannerisms were tense and words were clipped. 

“Well,” Jon interrupted the two nervously, “I think Sansa does need to lay down and rest. If you have been with child before, your grace, you would understand how tiresome traveling can be while in her condition.” Daenerys smiled tensely and nodded, having a few of her men show them to their rooms. 

“Why am I not staying with you?” Sansa questioned as she was shown to one of the smaller rooms. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Jon sighed, “She's probably trying to separate us.” 

“Then I will need to speak to her!” Sansa exclaimed. She turned around and tried to go back to the great hall, only for Jon to grab her hand and force her to look back at him. 

“Sansa,” he pleaded. “Just… Just come with me to my chamber instead.”

Sansa wanted to say something snide about how he was calling his room at Dragonstone “my chamber,” as if he planned to stay at the miserable, dreary ruin any longer than he had to stay. But Sansa obliged him, taking his arm and following him to a suite of rooms that were near the rooms that should have been Jon’s but were Daenerys’ instead. Sansa sat down on the edge of the bed, and began to unlace her boots. Her feet were beginning to swell, so her shoes weren't fitting her as well as they had. 

“Jon…” she looked at him expectantly and wiggled a stockinged foot in his direction. He chuckled slightly and sat down beside her, taking her feet into his lap and gently massaging them. “Oh… this is almost better than your cock…” Jon stopped and looked at her and Sansa scowled. “I said ‘almost better,’ Jon Snow.”

“Good,” Jon hummed as he returned to rubbing her feet. 

“And there's a reward… for you… when you finish rubbing my feet…” Sansa yawned. Jon had a feeling he wouldn't be getting his reward as Sansa settled her head amongst the pillows, a tired smile on her face. “I'm going to suck your cock… so the Dragon Queen can hear you moan my name…” 

As much as a good fuck sounded wonderful to Jon, it was clear to him that Sansa needed a good nap before they dined with Daenerys. “Maybe tonight, sweetling,” Jon murmured. 

Sansa didn't say anything in response, and Jon heard snoring. He slipped out from under her feet and placed a kiss to her forehead. Jon knew he needed to think about how he could dance around the topic of his parentage. Daenerys would not be happy. Jon honestly didn't even want to imagine how poorly she would react to the reality that her elder brother had a son—a legitimate son—still alive. 

He was beginning to regret bringing Sansa into the dragon’s den. He'd taken her away from one threat only to put her in the direct line of fire from Daenerys Targaryen herself. Jon made up his mind that he would put himself between the two, quite literally, if it came down to that. 

Jon woke Sansa from her nap a while later, and a few handmaidens came in and helped her into a clean gown for supper. He noticed that she was wearing a fine grey dress, with direwolves stitched across the bodice. It reminded him of the dress she'd worn before the battle with Ramsay. And Jon realized that Sansa did feel like she was going into battle, to a point. She was battling for Jon, to keep him from Daenerys. 

He was wearing new clothes as well; Sansa had stitched him a new doublet that looked like something Robb would have worn at one time. It was black, with a high collar and black brocade sleeves. 

“Are you ready?” he asked when Sansa finished brushing through her hair. 

“As I'll ever be,” she told him with a small smile. He offered her his arm and she clasped it firmly. Her other hand was on top of her bump, as if touching it steadied her and made her calmer. 

They were led to Daenerys’ solar where they would be dining with her and her closest advisors. Davos would also be joining them. When they entered, it was not lost on Sansa that she was seated as far away from Jon as humanly possible, while Jon was right next to Daenerys. Sansa shot Jon a look as she took her seat, next to Lord Varys. The Spider observed her curiously, as if he'd never expect the Starks to sink to incest.

“Is it not proper for a wife to sit opposite her husband in Essos, your grace?” Jon inquired as he took his seat to her left. Tyrion was seated to her right. 

Daenerys looked at him with a twinkle in her eye that was not really mischievous, but more knowing than anything. She was aware she had struck a nerve. “I apologize if I am not used to all your Westerosi customs, Lord Snow,” she remarked. “I thought Lady Sansa would be more content at the other end of the table, away from the strategy discussions and whatnot.” Sansa frowned and picked at the meal before her. She did not like lamb.

“I led the North in Jon’s stead, your grace,” she stated. “I am no stranger to such discussion.”

“You have organized gathering grain and strengthened Winterfell. You know nothing of war, my lady,” Daenerys reminded. Sansa’s brows furrowed together in frustration and she set down her knife. 

“And what do you know of battle strategy? All you know is riding in on your dragons and disintegrating your enemies! What strategy does that plan require?” Sansa questioned.

“My lady—“

“Jon led wildlings and northerners on the battlefield against an army twice their size. He has led men, he has bled alongside them, he… he died for them! You think you're the only one here who's special because you have three dragons, but Jon came back from the dea—“

“Sansa,” Jon’s voice was filled with warning. “Don't.”

“She treats us like we’re dogs,” Sansa huffed. “I won't have it.” 

Varys and Davos looked back and forth between the two; Davos wanted Sansa to sit down. She wasn't helping their cause by yelling at Daenerys. Varys, however, wanted the young woman beside him to continue. His little birds didn't reach all the way up to the Wall, so he hadn't heard much of Jon Snow until he became King in the North. 

It was Dany that broke the silence after Sansa’s outburst.

“But that's what you are, isn't it? Dogs?” she inquired. “Wolves?” Sansa and Jon both looked at each other before they both looked back at Daenerys. “Your own brother took you like a bitch in heat and you're surprised at how you've been treated here? You? A silly little girl with a head full of songs—“

“That's not true,” Sansa snarled.

“I'm not finished with you, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said in an eerily calm voice. “Seeing you here is proof enough as to why your dear brother would not bend the knee. The North is too wild. But what do you do to a wild dog, Lady Stark? You break it.” Tyrion shifted awkwardly in his seat, and Sansa glared defiantly at the woman at the head of the table. 

“Your lack of knowledge of the people of Westeros betrays you again, your grace,” she told her. “If you knew the North, you'd know that the Starks are no ordinary wolves. We’re direwolves. And… And my child is no wolf pup.”

“Sansa…” 

“I know you planned on telling her, Jon, but she needs to hear,” Sansa declared. “She needs to hear the truth. And either I'm going to tell he or you can, but it's happening now.”

“And what must I hear?” Daenerys sneered. 

“I'm a Targaryen,” Jon explained, his voice heavy. “I am… I am your elder brother Rhaegar’s son by Lyanna Stark. Trueborn. We discovered the truth upon my return to the North; a wedding certificate was found at the Citadel, and… and my broth—my cousin, Bran, has the sight. He saw… He saw the truth. Lady Sansa is not my sister. She is my cousin. And my wife.” 

The whole room was silent for a moment.

Varys looked upon Jon Snow and he was surprised that he'd never seen a bit of Rhaegar there before. The long, solemn face was that of the Starks, but the dark eyes and pouty lips were that of The Last Dragon. Tyrion was looking at Daenerys, trying to gauge her reaction. She had since learned, after visiting the caves of dragonglass, that Jon Snow was not a liar. 

“So you've returned to Dragonstone with your wife so you can try and undermine my claim,” Daenerys finally said. “You plan to rule the seven kingdoms with your wolf in your lap, acting as if you could do it better than me.” 

Jon’s brows scrunched together in alarm. “No, of course not—“

“Do you know what we do to traitors around here, Jon Snow?” Daenerys rose to her feet and stood, glaring down at him. “We burn them.” She shouted in Dothraki and a few of her blood riders came forward and grabbed Jon by the arms, hauling him up to his feet. Sansa shouted in alarm and got up, moving toward them, only for another Dothraki to step between her and Jon. Tyrion also began to plead and protest, trying to reason with a woman who was beyond reason.

The group was taken out into an open plain. Jon was stripped of his fine new clothes and found himself tied to a post. He could hear the dragons flying overhead, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Please,” Sansa begged as she pushed forward to where Daenerys stood. “For the love you have for your house, don't do this!”

“Your grace, I must advise you that the North will be in further rebellion if you burn their king alive,” Tyrion pointed out uneasily. “Such things do not end up well for your house when you burn Starks.” He was trying to remind her of her father and Rickard Stark, but he could tell by the gleam in her eyes that she was beyond reason.

“Dracarys!” she shouted. Drogon swooped down and spewed fire at Jon Snow.

What surprised them all was that he didn't burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my reasoning as to why Jon didn't burn, and this is a total headcanon:  
> His resurrection in the first place was only possible because he had king's blood in his veins. So when he came back to life, a sparkle of that magic that only belongs to Daenerys was awakened in him, and he couldn't burn.
> 
> There is another twist in the next chapter, but all of this is build-up to my big twist!
> 
> Also, if you want to help me with my writer's block and find out where the fic is heading, find me on tumblr: letjonsnownap
> 
> Don't forget kudos/comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys makes a decision. She and Sansa find they have more in common they believed. An heir is named.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's more awful Dany, so if you love her, I apologize. However, she is kinder to Sansa toward the end, but there's a reason for that.

Stranger still, was the fact that Drogon seemed to be the only dragon willing to torch Jon. Viserion and Rhaegal hovered over their brother, flapping their wings and screeching. Sansa had run off at one point, in tears, so she hadn't noticed that Jon wasn't burning. Rhaegal followed her, and Sansa stumbled back from the rock she'd been sitting on when the dragon landed in front of her. She fell flat on her bum and scowled. The dragon made a gentle squawking sound at her, and Sansa reached out to touch him. Rhaegal welcomed the tentative stroke of his snout, and nuzzled Sansa’s belly in return. She smiled, and realized that the dragon seemed to know there was a little dragon inside of her. 

“WHY WON’T HE BURN!” Daenerys shouted off in the distance. Sansa turned from her new dragon companion and looked. 

Jon was standing in the midst of a column of flame, but was unharmed. His hair and beard and eyebrows had burnt away, but he was perfectly fine. When Drogon stopped breathing fire, Jon stepped out of the flames. He faltered and fell forward, and Davos was there to catch him with his cloak. Tyrion was watching the whole scene curiously, while Daenerys was seething.

“Take him inside,” Tyrion stated. “We will learn the reasons for this interesting development later.” A few Dothraki helped Davos with Jon, and Sansa followed behind them as quickly as she could. The men threw Jon onto his bed in his chambers unceremoniously.

Sansa scurried to her trunk and grabbed a jar of ointment from it. Jon had small burns all over his body, and she’d had the sense to bring some in case they found themselves facing fire. She twisted off the tight lid and scooped a glob of the sticky, thick paste onto her fingers. Her hands trembled slightly as she dabbed at the burns on his chest and shoulders, and Jon grunted softly.

“You’ve got some burns,” Sansa murmured. “They’ll heal just fine, I think.”

Jon grumbled in response, his eyes still squeezed shut. Sansa worked with the ointment, using around half the jar before she was done. There was a knock on the door and Sansa rose to her feet. She opened the door and found Daenerys standing in the hall. With a scowl, Sansa tried to slam the door in her face, but a few men stopped her and forced their way into the room. 

“What do you want?” Sansa demanded. “Haven’t you done enough tonight?”

Daenerys ignored her words and she looked upon Jon’s sleeping form. “Why is he not awake?” she asked, turning to Sansa. “What have you done?” Sansa frowned and moved toward the bed.

“I have done nothing,” she replied. “I do not know, your grace, but I can imagine getting burned by dragon fire can be exhausting.’

“Indeed,” Daenerys hummed. “When he wakes, you will come to me.”

Sansa looked down at Jon, but nodded. Daenerys then took her leave of the room, and Sansa went about trying to care for Jon. His skin felt as if it were on fire, and it almost burned her fingers. She got a pitcher of cool water and poured it into a basin, then collected a washcloth and placed it in the basin. When the cloth was soaked, Sansa pulled it out and twisted the excess water from it before practically bathing Jon’s forehead with it. Jon sighed softly and his face relaxed slightly as she tried to cool him down. He grabbed her wrist and Sansa gasped.

“Sansa,” he rasped. “Let me rest.” 

“As you wish, my love,” Sansa smiled. “Jon… did you hear all that Daenerys said?” Jon didn’t reply, but grinned to himself. She chuckled and sat down by the hearth, stitching away at a blanket for their babe. It was made of a thick, soft, grey fabric, and Sansa had spent the entire trip south designing a sigil that featured both the direwolf of House Stark and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. She was almost done with the dragon, and would begin the direwolf that evening, most likely. 

She stitched away until the sun began to rise. Jon was still asleep when she set down her needlework and crawled into bed. He wasn’t as warm as he had felt earlier, and Sansa found it easy to nestle against him. 

At some point during the morning a servant had slipped in and delivered a small breakfast for Sansa. She woke sometime in the afternoon, and picked at the brown bread. 

“Jon?” Sansa mumbled after she had finished eating. “Are you hungry?”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I suppose we should be calling for our luncheon,” he told her. Jon touched his smooth, bald head, and frowned. “If the brothers of the Night’s Watch could see me now…” his voice carried a bit of amusement with him, but also a touch of sadness. Sansa got up from her seat at the small table on the other side of the room, and touched his head.

“Your hair always grew quickly,” she reminded. “Drove father’s steward mad, trying to keep you well-kept. Mother… Mother always said that it didn’t matter how you looked.”

“Aye, she would say that,” Jon muttered as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Sansa wanted to tell him that she regretted how her mother had treated him, especially after learning that he was not father’s bastard, but she didn’t know what she could say. She didn’t know what there was so say. It seemed so long ago, but if Sansa could recall such things she knew Jon could too. She wondered what her mother would think of her being married to Jon; Sansa hoped father would have been proud. But her mother, who had lived seeing Jon as a walking, talking reminder of her noble husband’s unfaithfulness… all while it was not true. Perhaps Lady Catelyn would be amused; her daughter had finally married a prince, like the ones in her songs. 

“Are your eyes alright?” Sansa questioned when she realized Jon was still rubbing at them. 

“They ache a fair bit,” he admitted. Sansa grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his eyes.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

When Jon did, she gasped. Sansa had grown so used to the dark irises of his eyes that never in a thousand years could she have expected them to be a beautiful shade of indigo when their gazes met. She cupped his face and turned his face from side to side, wondering how his eyes had changed. Sansa wondered if it had to do with the magic that had protected him from the flames. 

“What? What's wrong?” Jon clearly took her surprise for concern, and Sansa felt bad for worrying him. She climbed off the bed and grabbed her hand-mirror, giving it to him. Jon took it and groaned a complaint about his hair before noticing what Sansa had been surprised by. “Seven hells… my eyes…”

“They're like his now,” Sansa realized. “Like your father’s.”

There was a knock on the door and Sansa got up from the bed. Outside, Daenerys was waiting. She spotted Jon sitting up in bed and moved into the room without invitation. Sansa protested, but the Dragon Queen did not bother to listen. Jon watched her wearily with those now-indigo eyes, shining with a melancholy that Dragonstone had not seen since his father roamed its halls. When Daenerys’ gaze met his, she was immediately taken aback. Tyrion slipped into the room around her, and he also froze.

“Well, your grace, I fear we cannot deny he is the blood of the dragon now,” he pointed out. “This revelation would make him your… nephew, I believe?”

“It makes him my rival,” Daenerys glowered. “The son of the first son always has a stronger claim to the throne. Viserys taught me that because if little Aegon had survived he would have been the king. But this one… he did not know he was the rightful king. He was a bastard. As far as I am concerned, he is still a bastard. And he is no longer welcome here.” 

“Your grace!” Sansa protested. 

“You will be permitted to stay, Lady Stark,” Daenerys informed. “The child you bear will become my heir should something happen to me.” Sansa looked at her, puzzled as to why Daenerys was not interested in having her own heir. “I am barren, Lady Stark. And your healthy babe, part Stark, part Targaryen… it will sate the lords of Westeros more than any child I may have.” Coldly, she turned her attention to Jon. “You will leave this place immediately. If you are still here when I return to speak to your lady wife, I will find another way to try and kill you.” 

Without another word, Daenerys left the chamber. Sansa burst out into tears for the first time in what felt like years, and Jon gathered her in his arms.

“Hush, Sansa,” Jon murmured. “I won’t let her separate us. I will protect you. I promised I would.” Her eyes were filled with the same weariness they'd had before the Battle of the Bastards, and Jon realized that she knew he could not protect her from another threat. 

“Go north,” she told him. “Go rally our men and… and find a way to prove to her that all this fighting and squabbling for a stupid chair isn't worth it.” 

Something about the moment made Jon think that he wouldn’t see Sansa again for a long time. She helped him pack and dress, and kissed him goodbye. Sansa watched him sail away from the great walk up to the castle, rubbing her belly sadly. The babe had moved a great deal that day, and she found it was her only comfort as she made her way back up the walk. Daenerys was waiting for her, and the two walked arm-in-arm like Sansa had done many times with Margaery Tyrell all those years ago. It was strange to think that Margaery was dead. The entirety of House Tyrell was extinct, a mere memory of a time before the current one. Sansa remembered how the Tyrells had tried to get her out of the capitol; they had planned on marrying her to Ser Loras, but the Lannisters beat them to it and wed her off to Tyrion. 

“Your mind is elsewhere,” Daenerys said softly. 

“In another time,” Sansa explained. “I once walked the gardens of the Red Keep like this with Lady Margaery… you knew her grandmother, did you not?” 

“I did,” she confirmed. “Lady Olenna was… a remarkable woman. A true survivor.” 

“We’re all survivors,” Sansa argued. “I… I understand we have much in common, as far as hardships go, your grace. I’ve had my fair share of marriages that I was more or less sold into… one husband much better than the other, I must admit.”

“And what has become of this second husband?” Daenerys asked, curious. 

Sansa smirked slightly, remembering the sound of Ramsay’s bones crunching beneath the powerful jaws of his hounds. “I fed him to his hounds,” she shrugged. Daenerys raised a brow, but she couldn’t repress a smirk of her own. She was beginning to think she had underestimated Sansa Stark. “I… I’ve wondered if you would like to learn more about the North, about the place Jon and I call home. A good ruler can inspire loyalty in their people, your grace, but a great leader can inspire love.”

“And Lord Snow can inspire love in his people?”

“Yes,” Sansa smiled slightly. “He… He has made many sacrifices for his people. And any man who can get the lords of the North to fight alongside the wildlings—“

“You said at dinner last night that he died and came back,” Daenerys interrupted. 

“You called me a bitch in heat at supper as well,” Sansa raised a brow.

“A strong lady such as yourself should be able to get over such words.”

“And then you tried to burn my husband alive.”

The two stopped in the middle of the great hall and turned to face each other. Sansa was much taller than Daenerys, and they were such opposites; the dragon queen was kissed by ice, while the wolf queen was kissed by fire. 

“I know you have no love for Cersei,” Daenerys reminded, trying to change the subject. “My Hand has informed me as much. I plan on removing her from the throne. Surely that is something you would like to see? The woman who allowed the death of your father, whose own father ordered the Red Wedding that led to the violent murder of your older brother and mother, dethroned and shamed? What could make you happier than to see Cersei Lannister burn?” 

“Seeing you understand that you are an outsider, and that you have pushed away every Westerosi who has tried to advise you so you can chase your own agenda,” Sansa answered. 

Daenerys looked her over, her gaze resting on the swell of her stomach. The girl only had a few more moons before she’d have to bear her birthing pains. 

“Perhaps we will both get what we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Daenerys sees Sansa as nothing more than the mother of a potential heir, and has sent the rightful heir away. I doubt this will go over well for her...
> 
> Don't forget kudos/comments!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa comes to terms with her newfound captivity. She and Daenerys converse. Daenerys finds that her feelings for the young Stark girl aren't necessarily in the right place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a sprinkle of Daensa in the end of this; you have been warned.
> 
> Jon makes an appearance in chapter 8, but he isn't quite on his way back to Sansa yet. I've included the absolutely foolhardy wight hunt because, tbh, I know everyone thinks it's OOC for Jon but... the boy is stupid, y'all.

Sansa had never thought she would be a prisoner again when they had taken back Winterfell. But now she found herself trapped on Dragonstone with a wishy-washy Dragon Queen, her former husband, and a horde of Dothraki. She kept to her room most of the time, sewing and preparing for the babe’s arrival. Daenerys tried to get on her good side, sending men to the mainland to raid a nearby castle for a cradle, but Sansa didn’t receive any pleasure from the thought. Instead, she thought of her own nursery, back at Winterfell. She had hoped that the babe would be there, nestled in soft furs and with its own people. Daenerys was the child’s great-aunt, it was true, but she was not the babe’s people. That was what Sansa told herself. Her child had been conceived in the North, and was of the North. Every single thing she had made for the babe bore two sigils, but the dragon was for his or her father, not their aunt. 

“She makes such lovely things for the babe,” Sansa had heard Varys tell Daenerys one afternoon when she’d bothered to take a walk around the castle. “Catelyn Stark loved her children fiercely, your grace; I doubt her daughter will be much different.”

And Sansa was sure that she wouldn’t be any different. Her mother had been a wonderful mother, after all, and had loved all of her children. If Sansa could be half the mother she had been, then her child would be well-loved indeed. But her mother had also had their father around; her father, who had always taken them on his knee and sat with them, and listened to whatever stories they wanted to tell him about. Her father, who had encouraged their interests; Robb practiced his lance, she her needlework, Arya her sword… He had never been the one to scold Bran for his climbing all those years ago. The thought of those happy times with Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon brought tears to her eyes and she had to set down the little pair of socks she had been darning. A soft sob escaped her lips, and a knock on her door drew her attention away from her sorrow, though she knew her expression betrayed her resolve.

Tyrion was standing in the doorway, looking uncomfortable and awkward, as he usually did around her. Sansa began to get to her feet to greet him; in the month since Jon had left, her belly had just become more troublesome. She was beginning to lose sight of her own feet.

“No, don’t bother,” he told her. “I know how Cersei cursed and muttered at such propriety when she was heavy with child.”

“I'm not Cersei,” Sansa argued as she eased back down into her chair by the fire. 

Tyrion walked further into the room and sat down opposite her. He stared into the flames for a moment, as if he was recalling something horrible. Sansa could only wonder what he had seen Daenerys’ dragons do, and imagined he was thinking about something that had to do with them.

“Your husband was the first person up North that I think I liked,” he began. “I met him while I was, admittedly, trying to avoid the feast with your family. I didn’t like your family. Your father was honorable, but a fool. Your mother… she certainly was a clever woman, and she loved you all fiercely, but she was not the company I was accustomed to. I suppose your brother Robb was a fine lad; it is a shame he is not alive today. Our queen would have someone to marry. But Jon Snow… do you know how I first encountered him? He was hacking away at some poor training dummy because he had not been allowed to sit at the feast. Your lady mother was afraid his presence would upset the queen. If only she knew what a hypocrite my sister was; then I'm sure he would have been seated right up with you and your siblings—“

“Your point, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa sighed.

He clapped his hands together and sat back in his seat. “Ah, yes. My point. When I first saw Jon, I expected he would be just like your father; noble to a fault, boring, dry. But he understood the world. He knew things that your brother Robb wouldn’t know until he became a man grown just because of how he was raised. I liked him then. And I still like him now.”

“If you still like him then you would convince Queen Daenerys to allow him to return to me.” With a small sigh, Sansa picked up her needlework again.

“You have seen how… determined she is to come into her birthright.”

What she was expected to say to that, Sansa didn’t know. She began to work on the little socks instead, humming softly to herself as she did so. Tyrion watched her for a moment, before speaking again. She’d forgotten how much Tyrion loved speaking.

“How many moons do you have left, Sansa?”

“The maester has said two, but it could be a little less than that, perhaps a bit more,” she replied stiffly. “Babes rarely come when they’re expected.” It was something she remembered hearing her mother mutter when she would become so big that Maester Luwin wouldn’t allow her to leave her bed. 

“I see,” Tyrion mumbled. “The queen has decided that she would like to be present when you give birth.”

“Is that why you're here?” Sansa remarked, barely hiding her offense. She couldn’t believe it. Daenerys Targaryen had sent Jon away—perhaps the only person besides the maester that she would want in the room with her when the time came for her to give birth—and thought she could invade on something so monumental as the birth of her firstborn. “To try and calm me with kind words about my husband so I would be more open to her impeding on something as… as special as the birth of my first child? Lord Tyrion, for the love you hold for my husband, for the love you hold for my house, I would ask you to leave immediately.”

“Lady Sansa—“

“Out!” Sansa demanded as she got to her feet, shooing him away. “Out! Now! And don’t come back if you are coming to do her bidding! If she has something she wishes to say to me, she knows where I am.” Tyrion scrambled from his seat and made his way from the room as quickly as he could, and Sansa slammed the door shut behind him. She ran her fingers through her hair before wrapping her arms around herself. 

The flapping of wings outside her window drew her from her thoughts, and she waddled over. Rhaegal, the dragon named for Jon’s father, tended to keep guard of her chamber. In exchange, Sansa would toss him the bits of her lunch or supper—usually the lamb that Daenerys continued to serve—so he could have a snack.

When she opened the window, Rhaegal shrieked at her. Sansa smiled and tossed the leg of lamb from her lunch earlier. “There you go,” she chuckled. 

“They don’t take to outsiders often.” Sansa jumped at the sound of Daenerys’ voice. “Rhaegal has bonded with you.” Gathering herself, Sansa turned to face Daenerys with a mask of indifference on her face.

“He would have taken to Jon would you have allowed him to stay here at Dragonstone,” she stated.

“Perhaps,” Daenerys agreed as she sat down in the very seat Tyrion had been occupying just moments before. She reached for some of Sansa’s finished work, admiring the fine stitches and embroidery. “Pardon; I fear I was never properly taught how to use a needle, so I always admire when someone truly has a gift for such an art.” Sansa waddled back over to where Daenerys was sitting and took the blanket from her. “You must not be long now before the babe is due. Was it two moons, I heard? Regardless, you carry well.”

“I don’t understand why you think we can be friends,” Sansa frowned. “When my child is born, you get moved further down the Targaryen line of inheritance.” 

“Because your family cares so much about the preservation of our house,” Daenerys scoffed.

“You just don’t understand us, do you?” Sansa’s voice was filled with frustration and defeat. “For years, we all grew up hearing how your brother Rhaegar raped and murdered our Aunt Lyanna. He was the villain in nearly every story we heard about Robert’s Rebellion. But… But to know now that he loved our aunt, or at least cared for her very deeply, and that she bore him a son? For that son to have grown up amongst us, for my father to risk losing his head should Robert Baratheon have ever found out about Jon… We have sacrificed much for House Targaryen, your grace. And Jon Snow is the proof of that sacrifice.” 

Daenerys seemed to contemplate Sansa’s words for a moment. 

“Do you know what they named him?” she inquired.

“Jaehaerys. After your grandfather, and after Jaehaerys I,” Sansa answered. “He is the trueborn son of your oldest brother, and he needs you. Jon doesn’t want the throne, he's never wanted the throne. He just wants to be accepted. You are the last of his father’s family, your grace. He needs you just as he needs me and my siblings.” 

Daenerys’ gaze lingered on her belly. “You’ve given him more than I could ever give,” she muttered. Sansa was alarmed by her tone, but before Daenerys could say anything more in a threatening manner, she put on a stiff smile. “I hope you bear him a son.”

“I don’t think he'd want a son,” Sansa admitted. “Sons wage wars, sons become killers. Jon doesn’t like killing. And I don’t think he’d like having his son do it too.”

“After all,” Daenerys added, “all men must die. But we are not men.”

“No,” Sansa agreed. “We are not.”

Daenerys Targaryen was a bit of a mystery to Sansa. Every time they got to an agreement something seemed to fall through. And the two of them were, admittedly, very similar. They had been used by their abusers, but overcame them. They were both strong women. But Daenerys was strong almost to the point of being overpowering. She didn’t always listen to her advisors, nor did she care to adhere to the rules of the game. It was if the world of Westeros was a wheel, and Daenerys was trying to do everything in her power to break it. Little did Sansa know, of course, that was exactly what Daenerys was trying to do. 

And little did Sansa know that she was quite the enigma to Daenerys. Tyrion had warned her that Starks could be stubborn, but when she’d laid eyes on the pretty redheaded young woman, Daenerys had not been expecting a challenge. But Sansa was almost as skilled a politician as Tyrion himself. Daenerys had also not expected Sansa Stark to be so humble and modest as far as her beauty went; many women who were as lovely would be thrice as vain. 

Sansa wondered what else Daenerys may want from her, but the Dragon Queen said nothing as she sat and stared. 

“Your grace, is there anything else I might be able to do for you?” Sansa questioned. 

“Oh! Nothing,” Daenerys was quick to respond. “But… if I may… may I feel?” Sansa nodded; she couldn't imagine what losing a child would be like, so whenever Daenerys wished to feel her babe move, she allowed it. Daenerys placed a hand on her belly and the babe shifted and kicked. Her eyes brightened with a softness that Sansa rarely saw from her, and it made her smile a little bit. “I would give this all up if I could know how this feels… to know what it’s like to be a mother.”

“You never know, your grace,” Sansa comforted. “Maybe someday you will.” 

Though Sansa couldn’t think of very many younger lords who would be eligible. Jon was her husband. Lord Tyrion was an option, but he was her Hand. If Ser Jaime made it to the other side of the war, he would be a considerable option as a husband for Daenerys, but he would likely fight and die for his sister before taking up with her. 

“Childbearing was never in my cards, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said. “I am the Mother of Dragons; I will never be the mother of kings. That duty has befallen to you.” Her other hand brushed Sansa’s cheek and she leaned over without thinking, pressing a chaste kiss to the other woman’s lips. Sansa’s eyelashes fluttered in her shock, but it isn't a bad kiss in comparison to the kisses she’d had in the past. They're nothing like Jon’s—she can feel them down into her knees—but Daenerys’ lips are soft and pink like her own, and feel just as foreign as they feel familiar. 

“I…” Sansa tried to speak when she pulled away, but she can’t find a protest in her. 

“I hope you'll forgive me for that,” Daenerys mumbled, her cheeks a shade of pink that Sansa had never seen on her before. She was blushing.

“There… There’s nothing to forgive, your grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany kissing Sansa! Yikers, fam. So that happened....
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Don't forget comments/kudos!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns more about how his fate is intertwined with the Night King's. Sansa admits to having nightmares about what might become of Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah honestly buckle up guys because I honestly don't know what I'm doing. Have fun!

“I was expecting you to return with dragons,” Bran stated after Jon had checked in on Arya. His little sister had been training with Brienne of Tarth when he arrived, and it had made him smile to see her use Needle. That farewell seemed so long ago that it almost felt like a different time, a different world. Jon supposed it was. “And hair.”

“Things didn't go as planned,” Jon shrugged. His hair had started to grow back on his face; his eyebrows were faint and he had stubble on his cheeks, but they were coming in silver, not black. His head was also covered with spiky stubble as well. 

“I suppose I should have seen that,” Bran remarked in what seemed to be an attempt at humor. “You need to go back. You can't win without Daenerys’ dragons. And Sansa will need you when the time comes for your child to be born. I… I have seen the birth, and it will be difficult.” Jon paled and his stomach felt like it was in knots. 

“Bran,” he grasped his forearm. “Tell me now. Will I lose her?” 

Bran shook his head. “Sansa will bear many children after this one, Jon. Do not be afraid,” he assured. Jon breathed a sigh of relief. “But you must go North if you are to convince the Dragon Queen to help you.” A feeling of dread settled in the pit of Jon’s stomach. “Go to Eastwatch. Bring her proof of what comes with Winter. That is the only way.” Bran’s eyes seemed to be filled with another warning, or knowledge of something else that might happen at Eastwatch, but he didn't speak. 

“She will still expect me to bend the knee,” Jon reminded. 

Bran smiled coldly. “She wants the King in the North to bend the knee,” he stated. “The Night King will not.” Jon felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle up. “I have seen the Night King, Jon. Your fate is intertwined with his. You will… become him, just as Brandon Stark became the Three-Eyed Raven. It is known.” 

Jon’s heart sunk, and he grabbed Bran’s hand. “But Sansa,” he reminded. “What of Sansa? You said she would bear—“

“They say the Night Queen is kissed by fire,” Bran hummed.

It was too much for Jon to hear. He got to his feet and stormed from the room. Just because Bran was this all-powerful greenseer didn't mean that everything he saw was correct. That's what he told himself, at least, as he strode into the godswood and sat down at the base of the heart tree. It struck him that the last time he’d been in the godswood was when he had married Sansa. She had been so beautiful, with her Stark cloak and simple grey dress. His heart ached for her, and he could only imagine how she was faring back on Dragonstone. He doubted that Daenerys would mistreat her while she was with child, but what would happen as soon as the babe was born? Jon doubted Daenerys would kill Sansa, but he didn't think it below her to send Sansa away as soon as she got what she wanted. 

And he would not let that happen.

Jon left for Eastwatch that night without a word. When he arrived, he was surprised to see the Brotherhood Without Banners with the wildlings. And even more surprising, Sandor Clegane was among them.

“The Bastard of Winterfell,” he grunted. “You had much more hair last I saw you.” Jon rolled his eyes; he had a full head of short hair that looked like a shorter version of Jaime Lannister’s. “How is that sister of yours? The pretty one, Sansa?” His thoughts blurred and Jon had to calm himself down to keep from grabbing him and throttling him. 

“Not my sister, actually,” Jon replied. “My cousin. And now my wife. She is down south, and she's close to giving birth to our first child.”

“I'll drink to that,” Sandor muttered. “Good. You're not a cunt. She deserves someone who’s not a cunt.” Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion both looked over at the two and Dondarrion spoke up.

“So what is the plan, Jon Snow?” he inquired.

“We need to go beyond the Wall. As soon as we pass over, the… the army of the dead will come. I will face the Night King, but our goal… our goal will be to capture a wight so we can take it south to Daenerys Targaryen. She has three full-grown dragons that could destroy them once and for all, but she will not side with us without proof.”

The group was comprised of twelve men. As Jon predicted, it didn't take long for them to encounter the army of the dead. He unsheathed Longclaw and stood his ground before the Night King and battled him one-on-one while the others captured a wight and made a run for it. Jon’s sword clashed with a blade of ice, and Jon had never encountered a swordsman that was such his equal. 

The Night King nearly sliced Jon at one point and he stumbled backward. Bran’s words echoed in his head and he knew he had to finish him. For Sansa’s sake. 

A few more blows were exchanged and Jon summoned as much strength as he could when he lunged forward. His blade struck true and sunk into the Night King’s chest. The ghostly blue eyes flashed before they dulled, and Jon was blown back by a powerful gust of ice and wind. 

He could feel the chill of frost over his skin as he raced back to his horse and rode away as fast as he could. It was complete. 

Jon was in such pain at one point that he nearly fell from his mount. A violent shrieking sounded from above him and he glanced upward to find none other than one of Daenerys’ dragons flying overhead. It was the one she called Rhaegal. The beast landed beside Jon and he dismounted rather ungracefully from his horse. He'd seen Daenerys mount one of her dragons before and climbed on top of him, clinging desperately as Rhaegal took flight. He blacked out somewhere past the Wall. Rhaegal landed just beyond Eastwatch, and Jon fell from him unceremoniously. Tormund ran out and gathered him up, dragging him into the old fortress and out of the elements. 

He set him down on a plain cot, and Jon groaned in pain.

“You really killed that fucker, didn't you?” Tormund asked. “The free folk never dared; legend has it he just takes your soul if you try.” Jon could see how that was possible considering how he felt like his heart had frozen into ice. He had one thought on his mind: Sansa. He needed Sansa. He needed to touch her hair, kissed by fire. He needed to see her before their babe was born. Even as he could feel the cold of the Night King merge with his soul he was still aware of what he wanted, what he needed.

He was Ice. And he needed Fire.

*****

Back at Dragonstone, Sansa was nearing the end of her eighth month of pregnancy. The maester had ordered her to bedrest, and Daenerys and Tyrion made sure to come and visit her. Sansa was miserable; she had to make water frequently, and she couldn't see her feet anymore. She was experiencing early labor pains, but the maester had assured her that her body was simply “rehearsing” for bringing her babe into the world. Daenerys was getting excited; she was eager to meet her little niece or nephew. 

“When my feet are no longer the size of grapefruits,” Sansa grumbled one afternoon when Daenerys came to see her, “we’ll take the babe on walks down to the beach. Fresh air is good for babies, my mother always said.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Daenerys smiled. “It's getting so close. You must be excited.”

“I'll be excited when this one is finally out of me,” Sansa muttered. “The maester expects the babe will be coming sooner rather than later.” Daenerys’ eyes lit up at the mention and Sansa shifted in bed. She knew that she was still determined to be present at the birth of her great-nephew, but Sansa still wasn’t comfortable with her presence. 

“It'll be a beautiful baby,” Daenerys told her. “All that red hair… Jon’s curls… I used to think about what my baby would look like, you know.” Sansa sat up slightly in bed. Daenerys rarely spoke of her lost child.

“The babe was with your first husband, was it not?” she asked. 

A sad look passed over Daenerys’ face as she nodded. “My brother, Viserys, practically sold me to Khal Drogo. It did not begin as the happiest of unions, as you can imagine… I did not speak Dothraki, he could not speak the common tongue. I cried so hard on my wedding night that… Oh, but you don't want to hear about that,” she regained her composure for a moment, but Sansa grabbed her hand.

“Speaking as a young woman who has been married twice before ending up with Jon, I… I understand,” Sansa said. “Jon… when Jon won the Battle of the Bastards, he chased my second husband back to Winterfell. Ramsay was a monster, but he was a coward. When I made it back, I saw Jon on top of him. I thought he would kill him with his bare hands. And you know what? I would have let him.”

“Drogo killed my brother Viserys for me,” Daenerys recalled. “If you have another monster that needs to be murdered, I suggest letting Jon take care of it. It is… cathartic, to say the least.

They both shared a laugh. Sansa squeezed her hand, and Tyrion walked in on the two. He was surprised, but at least pleased that the two appeared to have put aside their differences. It would be beneficial for the Queen in the North and the Protector of the Realm to become close, even if they were not friends. And if Sansa was to remain at Dragonstone while Jon fought against the Others, it would be good for her to have a companion. Not that Daenerys would want to be kept on the sidelines if there was a battle to be won.

“Good to see you two have put aside your differences,” he remarked. Daenerys gave Sansa a coy look.

“Lady Sansa, weren't you married to Lord Tyrion at one time?” she inquired. Sansa smirked.

“Lord Tyrion was kind to me, your grace,” she replied. “I am grateful for his kindness during my time spent in King’s Landing. He and the Tyrells made the time there after my father’s death much less painful.” Daenerys smirked and patted Sansa’s hand before she rose to her feet.

“What is it, Lord Tyrion?” she questioned. 

He rubbed his hands together nervously and looked at Sansa. “It's about Jon Snow,” he informed. “He took a ranging party North of the Wall, and… well, reports are he did not come back the same.” Sansa felt like her heart was about to break. Jon didn't need anymore hardships in his life. He had died, for the gods’ sakes! Daenerys turned back to look at Sansa before she spoke.

“Do we know why Jon Snow decided to travel North of the Wall?” Her voice was steady, but Sansa could hear the concern in it.

“He planned on capturing one of the undead to bring back here, as proof of the threat that is approaching Westeros,” Tyrion stated. “A foolhardy idea, but you must commend him for his bravery. From what I understand, he plans to leave Eastwatch as soon as he is recovered and be present for his child’s birth.” Sansa’s lip quivered and before she knew what she was doing she was sobbing aloud. Daenerys turned and sat back down on the edge of her bed, pulling her close.

“Leave us,” she ordered sternly. Tyrion did as he was told, bowing to them both.

“I… I had a dream about t-this!” Sansa choked out. “Jon… He was still my Jon, and oh, does he still love me, but… but he becomes s-s-so cold!” Her shoulders trembled as she tried not to cry any harder. 

Sansa had been having many peculiar dreams as of late, and each one revolved around Jon. He was always cold. Once, she dreamed of him standing on top of the Wall in swirling black armor with Longclaw in hand as two great forces clashed on either side of him. She dreamed of Jon perched on the monstrous Iron Throne with a crown of ice on his head. In that dream, she was always seated at his feet, a circlet upon her head that looked like delicate snowflakes. Sansa didn't know where such ideas were coming from; she didn't want to be queen and she did not want Jon to sit upon the Iron Throne. 

“He's the Blood of the Dragon, Sansa,” Daenerys reminded her. She cupped her cheek gently. Her hands were always warm and soft, and Sansa liked the way they felt on her skin. “He will never be cold. Especially not to you.”

Sansa wasn't so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Night King Jon! Eek!
> 
> This will be interesting!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince is born. Ice and Fire are reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a forewarning; Jon is not necessarily in his right mind this chapter because he's kind of juggling the fact that he's the Night King now. However, he's not completely far gone; there is a balance between fire (his being a Targaryen) and ice (him being the NK) that is established.

It was late in the evening when Sansa went into labor just three weeks after the news from Eastwatch had reached Dragonstone. She had struggled out of bed to go make water, and much to her surprise her water broke within just a few steps toward the chamber pot. Sansa waddled over to her door and shouted for someone to fetch the maester; thankfully a Greyjoy soldier had been passing when she had and understood what she needed. Daenerys arrived before the maester did, and helped Sansa back into bed. When the maester arrived, he felt Sansa’s belly, then examined her more intimately, which made Sansa blush. Her labor pains were fairly far apart, but as time passed they became closer and closer. At first, they had simply felt like bad menstrual pains, but as the hours ticked by they were more intense. 

After a particularly strong contraction forced a pained groan from her lips, Sansa glared daggers at the maester. “Get it out!” she shouted. “Now!” 

“Is she getting close?” Daenerys inquired. 

The maester nodded; he had been tracking the time between Sansa’s birthing pains and they were getting closer and closer together. “The babe should begin to crown soon,” he informed. Sansa winced; she knew from having read books in Maester Luwin’s study that oftentimes that felt worse than the contractions. Her thoughts were cut off as she grit her teeth and groaned in pain again. The sun was coming up outside, and Sansa realized she had spent practically the whole night in labor. “Your grace, if you could help hold Lady Sansa’s legs open?” Daenerys nodded and helped, as did her translator, Missandei. 

Sansa felt tears stream down her cheeks from the pain, but when the maester instructed her to push, she pushed with all her might. Every time he ordered it, she did it with as much effort as she could. 

“You’re doing good, Sansa,” Daenerys encouraged. “How many more, maester?” 

“One more good push, your grace,” he informed. Sansa looked from him to Daenerys and the queen gave her an encouraging nod. Sansa did as she had been told and screamed as she gave the hardest push she could. 

At first, there was nothing. Sansa sat up in alarm, looking down at the babe that the maester had just pulled from her. 

“What’s wrong?” Sansa mumbled. “What’s wrong with my baby?”

The maester said nothing, and did something to the newborn just out of Sansa’s view. Suddenly, a loud wail filled the room and Sansa collapsed back onto the bed in relief. The babe was cleaned up a bit before the maester cleaned up the afterbirth, and placed the newborn in Sansa’s arms. 

“A son,” he stated. Sansa beamed and pulled the blanket he'd been wrapped in away, observing the wispy silver hair on his head. 

“A little Targaryen,” Daenerys grinned. 

Suddenly, Sansa began to cry. She had always thought that her mother would have been present when she gave birth to her first child; that she would help her through everything so the babe would be born without any difficulty. Sansa had hoped that the babe would be born with Tully red hair; if it was a boy, she knew Jon would not have protested about naming him Robb, and if it was a girl… she would have offered to name her Lyanna. But the name Robb did not suit the silver-haired baby boy in her arms. Daenerys was right; he was a little Targaryen. 

“What will you call him, Sansa?” Missandei asked. Sansa simply shook her head and held the babe closer. He snuffled and turned toward her breast, and Sansa realized he must need to nurse.

“I do not know,” Sansa replied as she unlaced the tie at the top of her shift and offered her breast to the babe, who latched on and began to suckle with relative ease. “I’m afraid I was not prepared to give birth to a little dragon; my knowledge of Targaryen names is very poor, I am afraid.” It was a bit of a lie; she had names swirling around her head now. Daeron, Aemon, Aegon… each a strong name, a good name for the rightful king’s son. 

Daenerys nodded and stood. “Jaehaerys I’s eldest son was named Aemon,” she informed. “And King Aegon V’s brother Aemon was maester at Castle Black, was he not?” The maester confirmed this for her, and she looked down at the babe at his mother’s breast. “A fitting name.”

“Aemon,” Sansa tested it out on her tongue and found it was not half as bitter-tasting as she had thought. Missandei and Daenerys stayed with her that first day and night after giving birth, and Sansa was very grateful. She knew Jon would be surprised when he returned to find that she had begun to get along with the Dragon Queen and her translator, but they had been nothing but kind to her throughout her pregnancy. Of course, Sansa knew this was because Daenerys wanted to claim little Aemon as her heir, but her kindness had not been necessary.

Tyrion came to see her on the second day. Sansa had just changed Aemon’s clout, and was wrapping him up in a fresh blanket as well when he arrived. She was just in a night rail and dressing gown, but he found her to be the picture of maternal grace.

“Motherhood suits you, Lady Sansa,” he complimented. His eyes landed on the babe in her arms and he managed a small smile. “And this is little Prince Aemon. He has taken after his father’s father, I see. Strange how the silver hair appeared when I seem to recall the Tully look appearing in most of your siblings.” 

“Your words are kind, Lord Tyrion,” she said. “Have… Have you received word about Jon? Will he be returning?” It was all she wanted at this point; she wanted Jon to see his son.

“I have heard he sails south,” Tyrion informed her. “He will likely be here any day now.”

Sansa’s heart swelled with relief. She hoped Daenerys would allow him back, but she doubted anything would stop Jon from seeing her and their child. 

And on the third day, a ship did arrive from the North. It was late in the evening when it landed, and a single rowboat departed from it, heading toward Dragonstone. Sansa was fast asleep, with little Aemon nestled snugly in his cradle by her bed. It was convenient that she was in such a deep sleep, or she would have heard the shouts of the guards who were quickly silenced and the crackling of frost creeping over her window. Winter had come to Dragonstone, and it arrived with a fury unlike anything they could have prepared for. Its attack was silent, like a snowfall without wind, and overtook the castle with ease. 

Sansa did not stir from her deep sleep until the guards outside her own door fell with screams of their own. She quickly got out of bed and picked up Aemon, cursing herself for never bothering to carry a weapon before. 

A sheen of ice covered her door, and the wood creaked as it gave way. Sansa held Aemon closer to her chest as the babe howled in distress.

Standing out in the hall was Jon, but it was clear to Sansa that he was not her Jon. Aemon cried like a banshee, and Sansa realized that it was because the room had become almost freezing. Jon stepped inside, and she noticed that his footprints left traces of snow and frost behind him. His eyes, still indigo, seemed to glow with sinister, ancient power. She backed up as he approached her until her back was pressed into one of the stone walls of her chamber. Aemon sobbed helplessly and Sansa tried desperately to soothe him.

“Sansa,” Jon said. His voice was the same, but the way he said her name had a hint of lust that made her shiver.

“What happened to you?” Sansa managed as Aemon snuffled miserably. 

Jon did not answer her question, and instead turned his attention to the babe in her arms. “Our son,” he acknowledged. Sansa nodded. “Let me hold him.” As much as she wasn’t sure about what had become of him, Sansa never would deny Jon his son. She didn’t want to share a fate with the two Dothraki who were bleeding outside her door. Cautiously, she set Aemon in his arms. Miraculously, Aemon stopped crying. Sansa reached out to touch him, and found he was cold to the touch. “It will not hurt him like it hurts the Blood of the First Men. The Blood of Old Valyria protects him.” Sansa felt her skin crawl; the tone of his voice reminded her so much of Bran’s. And the Blood of the First Men ran through her veins, just as it had her mother and father.

“But it can harm me, whatever ‘it’ is?” Sansa questioned. Jon shifted Aemon so he was holding him with one arm, and reached with his other hand to touch Sansa’s hair. 

“They say the Night Queen is kissed by fire,” he murmured softly. 

“Is that what you’ve become?” Sansa pushed his hand away, but he gripped her hair tightly. “You are the Night King? You’re supposed to save us, not destroy us!” Jon smiled coldly and placed Aemon back in her arms. The babe didn’t feel as cold as he had, and was fast asleep now with a little smile on his face. 

“I know things now, Sansa. I can destroy the army of the dead,” he told her. “But I need you by my side if I am to do this.” She looked him in the eyes and could see he was being sincere. “And we must return North. Starks are stronger in the North.”

Sansa thought of Daenerys and Tyrion and the rest of the people at Dragonstone. Daenerys would know who stole her away, and would likely come after them. “We can’t, Jon. I can’t. Not now, not when things finally seem safe…” She looked down at Aemon and brushed a hand over his head, smiling at the soft wisps of hair. “We would put everyone we love in danger if we left. Just… Just stay, and see if Daenerys has changed her mind.”

“After I’ve slaughtered half her guards?” Jon scoffed. “Sansa, you speak as if you’ve begun to feel affection for the woman. The woman who tried to have me burned alive; or have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten!” Sansa hissed. “But you act as if the safety of your wife and child are worth less than your pride!” 

Rage bloomed in the pit of Jon’s stomach and before he knew what he was doing, his hand wrapped around her throat. Sansa gasped, and cursed him in her head. She could not fight back, lest she wished to drop Aemon. He didn’t even think as he squeezed, watching her face turn red, then purple. 

“Don’t you dare say something like that again,” Jon growled. Even as he had grown cold, he still had the wolf’s blood in him, and the ice in his veins only made it fiercer. 

Sansa shook her head, trying to assure him that she would not. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she struggled for breath. She began to see spots in her vision, and knew that if Jon did not release her soon that she would pass out. “Please,” she rasped. “Let… go…” Jon did, and Sansa immediately shifted Aemon into the crook of one elbow so she could rub her neck. “Jon, I… I love you, but I can’t…”

“So you do feel for her,” he surmised. 

“Yes! Yes, I do, Jon, but… but never in the capacity that I feel for you! Do you understand?” Her hand that had been touching her neck reached out and brushed across his cheek. She did not shudder at the chill that was beneath her fingertips as she did. Jon nodded and looked around the room.

“Then you leave me no choice.”

Sansa watched as he threw her things and a few of Aemon’s into a small trunk. He picked it up with little difficulty and grabbed her free hand. Sansa protested softly as he dragged her out of her chambers. He had slaughtered every guard from her chambers to the grand entrance to Dragonstone, and Sansa’s slippers were soon soaked in their blood. She stumbled along behind him; his gait was far more urgent and he was taking longer strides than she was. Aemon nestled against her chest, once more seeking the warmth that he could now only get from his mother. Sansa pressed a kiss to his forehead, and upon reaching the beach, stood there pathetically as Jon tossed her trunk into the rowboat and turned back to her.

“Jon, please…” she begged. 

“Sansa,” he stated. His hand was outstretched, and he wasn’t really giving her a choice. Her heart broke as she thought of how, on the night Aemon was conceived, she had thought he would never hurt her. She felt foolish for having allowed herself to think like the stupid girl she’d once been in that moment. Men would always hurt her. Jon was no different.

Still, she took his hand and let him help her into the rowboat. They slipped off into the cover of darkness, the hulking form of Dragonstone a mere shadow behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So away they go! Sorry about the not-so-noble Jon. 
> 
> But awwww baby Aemon!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon are at odds. Their only common interest? Their newborn son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I'm just uploading because I'm at school now and I don't know when I'll have the chance to update as spaced out as I normally like to. However, if I get the chance, I might write another Night King Jon fic that isn't a companion to this one but a standalone.

Sansa half-expected the ship they boarded to be manned by the army of the dead. But when the familiar faces of some of Jon’s wildling friends turned to her and stared, Sansa smiled in relief. Tormund walked up to her and peered down at the little bundle in her arms. Aemon was fast asleep, completely at peace. 

“He looks like his papa,” Tormund noted.

“He does,” Sansa agreed uneasily. Jon looked at her, his eyes not completely cold but without warmth either. He reached out, offering her his hand as he started to head down below decks. “I don't need your hand, Jon.” She held Aemon closer and followed him down below decks. They had the captain’s cabin to themselves, and Sansa noticed that a crate had been nailed to the floor beside the captain’s bed; a makeshift cradle for their child. She quickly set Aemon down in the little crate, which was stuffed with warm furs. With a huff, she whirled around and slapped Jon as hard as she could. 

Jon didn't even flinch. Sansa grit her teeth and hit him again, angry tears falling down her cheeks. “How could you!” she shouted. “How could you do this to me! To us!”

After she got in a few hits, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. 

“Sansa,” he murmured. “Look at me.” She avoided his gaze, partly because she could hear the disapproval in his voice, and partly because she didn't want to look in those inhuman eyes. “Look. At. Me.” He gently gripped her chin and forced her to look in his eyes. Sansa shuddered, feeling a chill go down her spine. “I am yours, and you are mine. From this day, until the end of time. You are my wife.” His lips brushed over hers and Sansa could feel the chill of his breath against her mouth. 

“The maester says I can't lay with you for at least a moon and a fortnight,” she whispered to him. Jon hummed against her lips and tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer. Sansa’s knees felt weak the longer they kissed. 

“Very well,” Jon sighed as he pulled away. “You must rest. Sleep, Sansa. I'll watch our boy.”

“Aemon,” Sansa informed. “His name is Aemon.”

She saw a flicker of joy in his eyes that quickly dimmed. He picked up their babe from the makeshift cradle and held him to his chest as Sansa settled in bed. The rolling seas rocked her to sleep, but she found after Jon had kissed her that she couldn't ever seem to get warm. 

Jon sat with Aemon in his arms, watching him sleep. The part of him that hadn't changed couldn't believe that he'd helped create something so small and so innocent. He could hold Aemon in the crook of his elbow and his little feet would reach the palm of his hand. And the babe didn't seem perturbed at how cold his father was to the touch. Jon understood this to be because the babe had the dragon’s blood in him. The same dragon’s blood that had created a balance and harmony when Jon had become the Night King. 

After holding Aemon for what felt like an eternity, Jon set him back down in the makeshift cradle and climbed into bed next to Sansa. While he didn't need as much sleep as before, he wasn't immune to it by any means. And Sansa’s body felt so warm against his cold skin that he enveloped her in his arms. 

When Sansa woke in the morning to Aemon’s hungry cry, she felt freezing. She soon realized it was because Jon had his arms wrapped possessively around her. With a sigh, she pushed his arm off of her and picked up Aemon, bearing her breast so he could nurse.

“There you go, sweetling,” she cooed. Aemon clung to his mother’s breast, his little hands spread wide as he suckled away. 

Jon woke to the sight of the two and he managed a small smile. 

“You still need to explain why you did what you did,” Sansa stated coldly, not even bothering to turn and look at him. “Why you would put yourself in danger, why… why you would become the very thing you’ve been telling us we need to fight…” She gently burped Aemon before covering herself again and turning to face Jon. Her heart fluttered at his hair, mussed from sleep, and how the furs on the bed had fallen to rest at his narrow hips. But her mind screamed in anger and betrayal at his decision. And Sansa had learned how to rely on her mind far more than her heart. 

“Sansa—“

“Explain,” she frowned. “Because I have half a mind to let Arya run you through with her Valyrian steel dagger when we reach Winterfell.” If that would even destroy him. Whatever Jon had become, he seemed like a completely different beast than what the White Walkers were described as being. He was cold to the touch, more deadly than he had been, but there was a lot of him still there. 

Sansa thought of what more Bran had told her about Rhaegar Targaryen before she had left for Dragonstone; Bran had admitted that Rhaegar had always been obsessed with prophecy. He believed that one of his children would be The Prince That Was Promised, and the son’s song would be the song of Ice and Fire. As Sansa met Jon’s gaze, and saw the violet eyes of Old Valyria glow with an unnerving, inhuman light she wondered if Jon becoming The Night King had been the whole point of the prophecy. He had been Ice and Fire in a figurative sense as Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, but now he literally embodied both.

“It was all fated to happen, Sansa,” Jon murmured as he reached out to cup her cheek. “Someone had to defeat the Night King, and it wasn’t going to be Daenerys. It had to be me. Bran told me, when I returned to Winterfell after Daenerys banished me from Dragonstone, that Daenerys would not be able to get The Night King to kneel. I did what I had to do to keep her from… from destroying the realm. The people would not support her. You know that—“

“And you think they would support you, as you are now?” Sansa questioned. “Jon, I… I don’t even know what you are!” As his lips sunk into a frown, Sansa avoided his eyes and looked back down at Aemon. “What if what Bran saw was all wrong?” 

While he watched Sansa stare down at their newborn son, Jon felt a twinge of guilt in his gut. From what he could tell, she and Aemon had been comfortable on Dragonstone. That didn’t change the fact that he wanted her and his son as far away from Daenerys as possible; the more he came to know and the more he thought about it, the wars to come held one of their demises in their cards. And Jon would be damned if he was the one to die, leaving Sansa and Aemon all alone. The Dragon Queen would not get to make an orphan of his son.

“This war will bring the end of many great houses,” he told her sternly. “Would you rather I not do this and allow our house, our family to be destroyed instead?” Jon could see her shoulders tense at his words; it was the wrong thing to say to a woman who loved her family more than anything, but she was being unbelievably stubborn.

“Of course not, but—“

“But what, Sansa?” Jon snarled. “I was good enough for you when I was your bastard half-brother, I was more than good enough when I was your cousin. You don’t want me now that I’ve guaranteed our son’s safety? Now that I’ve guaranteed your own safety?” He got to his feet and Sansa rose as well, setting Aemon back down in the crate. When she faced him, his face was contorted in a rage and frustration she had rarely seen from him. She never thought that Jon—stupidly brave, honorable, gentle Jon—would ever look at her with such… anger. It lit a fire in the pit of her stomach, and before she knew what she was doing, she swung her hand at him and slapped him hard across the face. The palm of her hand stung like pins and needles, and she recoiled instantly. Jon barely reacted; his head had turned sharply, moving with the force of her strike, but he didn’t even reach up to rub his cheek as he looked back at her.

“Jon—“

He grabbed her and forced her down onto the bed. Sansa felt her chest tighten as the memory of another bed, another man came flooding into her memory. She fought beneath him, clawed at him, but nothing seemed to work. Even Ramsay would recoil if she scratched the right spots. 

“Why did the gods make me love a spiteful woman?” Jon spat.

As he gripped her shoulders, Sansa could feel the bite of winter frost on her skin. She gasped, staring at his hands in horror. Aemon began to wail fiercely and her gaze snapped to him. Jon recoiled, dressing quickly before he stormed out of the cabin. Sansa sat up slowly and rubbed the sensitive skin of her shoulders to try and warm them. 

Her hands were trembling as she sat on the bed. What had become of her Jon? How could he believe that becoming… whatever he was… would solve all of their problems? How could he expect the lords of the North to rally behind him when he was the very thing their ancestors had fought to destroy? Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she turned her attention to Aemon, who was still wailing away in his makeshift cradle. A shaky smile graced her face as she scooped him up in her arms and held him close. 

“You're the best thing I have in the world right now, sweetling,” she murmured. “I love you more than anything else in the entire world.” The babe snuffled pathetically, but began to hush. 

When their ship docked at White Harbor, Sansa had not seen Jon once since their fight. She emerged from the cabin with Aemon in her arms; Sansa had bundled him in multiple furs so he would stay warm in the North. As she reached the top deck, she saw Jon standing just in front of the gangplank, speaking in hushed tones with the captain. It amazed her that no one else saw something unusual about his appearance; as if it was normal for the King in the North to have glowing eyes. 

“Your grace…” the captain murmured softly, directing his gaze over Jon’s shoulder to where Sansa stood. Jon turned, and managed a smile for her.

“How is he?” he asked, looking down at Aemon. 

“He is well, your grace,” Sansa replied coldly. “Have you notified my sister of our imminent return?” It didn't escape her notice how his jaw grew taut when she refused to call him Jon. 

“We should have an envoy waiting to escort us,” Jon informed her. “Complete with a wheelhouse for you and Aemon to travel in comfort.” Sansa thanked him with indifference and headed down the gangplank as cautiously as she could. It was somewhat icy, and she had never been good at walking down them. Aemon cooed sweetly in her arms; they had been sailing for nearly a month and it amazed her that he'd grown in such a short time. He was beginning to sleep through most of the night, and when Sansa talked to him he would give her a gummy little smile. 

“My sweet boy,” Sansa praised as soon as she reached the dock. 

Like Jon had stated, a wheelhouse and a small honor guard of northern lords were waiting for them at the gates. Lord Glover was among them, and greeted Sansa warmly. 

“Your babe is going to be a handsome little lad,” he chuckled. “Let me help you into the w—“

“I've got her, Lord Glover,” Jon informed. Sansa cursed Jon for becoming more politically savvy the past year or so, because he knew she could not refuse his help in front of the lords without causing a stir. He even kissed her hand after she was settled, his lips leaving a hint of frost on her knuckles. “I hope you are comfortable, my queen.” She managed a tight, uneasy smile for him before he closed the wheelhouse door for her. 

Aemon slept for most of the journey through the north. When he was awake, Sansa would talk to him and he would coo up at her. It was during their journey that Sansa began to understand her mother even more, and her bond with Robb. She had been alone with Robb as a newborn while Robert’s Rebellion finished, so she'd had plenty of time to bond with her baby boy. 

“And that's what we’ll do, right Aemon?” Sansa giggled softly. “You're going to be mama’s boy. Yes you are!” Aemon cooed and hiccuped, and Sansa burped him gently.

She was beginning to think watching him grow would be her only solace as Jon’s queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought that Sansa would be a great mother; I feel like that's a recurring theme in all my fics.
> 
> One more chapter to go! 
> 
> Don't forget to leave comments/kudos!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Happy Ending(?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have written myself into a hole and I'm now at college and don't know when I'll have time to write, this is the end, guys.

One Year Later

Sansa sat in the gardens of the Red Keep with a delicate diadem of silver on her head. Little Aemon was toddling around, exploring and tumbling over himself. Ghost followed the little boy obediently, and would pick him up by the back of his shirt whenever he fell. After a tumble that made him cry loudly, Ghost brought him back to Sansa, who sat him on her lap and kissed his scraped knees. His big lilac eyes were still watery as he sniffled, and Sansa pushed his silver curls back from his forehead. 

“Mumma…” he mumbled as he buried his face in the crook of her arm. The sound of approaching footsteps caused Sansa to tense ever so slightly, as did the chill that came with the individual. Aemon was used to what his father’s presence felt like, and looked over her shoulder. “Papa!” 

Sansa watched as Aemon scrambled from her lap and ran into Jon’s arms. 

“There's my boy,” Jon chuckled. “Have you been enjoying the sunshine with your mother?” Aemon nodded giddily. “And has Ghost been watching out for you?”

“Pway wif Go!” Aemon giggled. All of a sudden, he yawned and the Septa swooped in, taking him from Jon and leaving the king and queen all alone in the gardens. Sansa knew her Queensguard would be nearby; Arya and Brienne rarely let her or Aemon out of their sight. 

Sansa looked upon her husband. His hair had finally grown back, and fell in beautiful silver curls down to his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, as was befitting a man of his station. It changed his appearance, but some of his habits had not changed at all. Jon still dressed mainly in black, but had traded the heavy fabrics of the North for finer silks. He had been named the king after he had defeated the remaining White Walkers. The war also brought about the destruction of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, so magic was all but extinct in Westeros, save for Jon himself. Still, he was a fine ruler. Jon had the patience of Ned Stark, and with Sansa by his side he had a skilled politician advising him. 

“How are you, my queen?” he inquired as he sat beside her. He took her hand and she didn't pull away from the chill of his skin. She had grown used to it in the past year.

Sansa managed a smile for him. “I am well,” she replied. “Very well.” 

“That pleases me,” Jon murmured, brushing a hand through her hair. “That pleases me very much…” He gently pressed his lips to hers, and Sansa sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck. They had made their peace with each other after the war had been won, and Sansa hadn't told him yet but she wanted another child. 

Jon’s lips had begun to wander down her neck when Grandmaester Tarly cleared his throat behind them. 

“Grandmaester, we best be under attack by the Golden Company or else I am going to ask you to leave so I can take my wife to bed,” Jon grumbled. Sansa smiled into the crook of his neck and pulled back. 

“No, your grace,” Sam stated. “You are supposed to be holding court…”

Jon cursed quietly under his breath and rose to his feet. Sansa got up as well, and followed him back into the castle. One of his stewards presented him with his crown; a circlet of steel adorned with seven spikes for each of the seven kingdoms. Inside the throne room, the hall was bustling with the young lords and ladies that now occupied the court. Robin Arryn came from the Eyrie with Lord Royce as his escort. Gendry Baratheon represented the Stormlands. Lyanna Mormont and Meera Reed stood in Bran’s place for the North. Tyrion Lannister was now the Lord of Casterly Rock. Samwell’s mother stood with Gilly and Little Sam, who was the unofficial Lord of the Reach. Edmure Tully greeted his niece Sansa with a warm hug, and was dressed in Tully colors once more. And Lord Edric Dayne was now the ruler of Dorne after the fall of the Martells. Lastly, Theon Greyjoy stood in attendance to represent the Iron Islands.

All eyes were on Jon as he sat upon the throne. It was his first time holding court with all the wardens present. Sansa sat to his left while Tyrion stood to his right. The Septa brought Aemon to Sansa, and she sat him on her lap.

“Mumma pway?” Aemon inquired sweetly. 

“Not now, sweet boy,” Sansa murmured before she kissed the top of his head. 

When Jon had finally greeted every warden of each kingdom by name and proper title (something Sansa had advised him to do), he began to address them. “I know many of you have been skeptical as to how I would rule the seven kingdoms,” he stated. “Some of you were well-acquainted with Lord Eddard Stark, the man who raised me. Others of you may have grown up hearing of my birth father, Prince Rhaegar. Those of the north and those whose fathers once fought against House Targaryen and my father are likely weary that I will be like Prince Rhaegar. Part of why I called you all here is to assure you that the only things I have in common with him are my appearance and a tendency to brood.” A few of the men chuckled at Jon’s joke and he cracked a rare smile. 

“Mumma…” Aemon sighed, resting his head on Sansa’s shoulder. 

“I grew up around Lord Eddard,” Jon continued. “He was my father, as far as I knew. And he taught me many valuable lessons on how to rule. I can promise you that I will rule in a similar manner to the way my uncle oversaw the North in his time. Also, I have come to encourage all of you to frequent court. Many of us are young men. It is beneficial for the country for us to be united; allies in progress and intellectual pursuits. The court of the Red Keep will be what it should have been a long time ago; a place for free thought and strong bonds between kingdoms.”

“Hear hear!” A few lords shouted.

Jon rose to his feet and stepped down from the dais the throne sat upon so he could be closer to his subjects. “And most importantly, my wife will play a major role in the reshaping of court,” he announced. “Queen Sansa is a more deft politician than even Lord Tyrion. She is very special to me, and she will be my equal in all decisions.”

He spoke some more, but Sansa did not hear. She was too stunned to listen. It wasn't until Aemon began to tug on her long braid, whining that he wanted to go to “sleep-sleep” that she realized court had ended. 

“I'll take him, my queen,” the Septa said softly. Sansa thanked her and handed him off after kissing his cheek. 

She and Jon walked from the throne room arm-in-arm. 

“Thank you,” she whispered to him. His eyes glowed brighter as they often did when he was pleased, especially when he was pleased with her. “You have no idea how much all of this means to me.” Jon smiled and took her into his arms as soon as they were out of eyesight of anyone wishing to see their king and queen in a compromising position. Her lips met his, and she shivered at how cold they were, but she no longer shivered in fear of the chill. 

“Let’s get to my chambers before I take you right here in the hall,” Jon growled, biting her lip playfully. 

The two of them hurried up to the king’s bedchamber, and Sansa pushed Jon down onto the bed playfully. Slowly, she began to untie the laces on the light blue silk gown she wore. Jon ran a hand over the front of his trousers, enjoying the view of his wife undressing for him. Sansa let the gown slip from her shoulders and pool at her feet. Her corset followed, along with her shift. 

“Come here,” he ordered. Sansa obeyed, straddling him by the hips and running her fingers through his hair. “So beautiful…” He ran his hands up her sides and her skin prickled with goose pimples, but a breathy moan escaped her lips at the chill. Her nipples hardened almost immediately when his thumbs brushed over them, and Sansa whimpered in pleasure when he took one into his mouth. “So, so beautiful… and all mine…” 

“Oh Jon…” Sansa sighed. Her fingers began to fumble with the fasteners on his doublet, and he helped her remove his layers. “Jon, I… oh… I want another baby, Jon…” 

He pulled back from her breasts and stared at her in surprise. 

“Sansa, are you… do you really want another child?” he asked. Bran had predicted before that Sansa would have many children after their first. But Jon had never been sure if she would ever come around to the idea. Since arriving in the capitol, Jon had only ever tasted her sweet cunny. She had been hesitant to let him fuck her. 

“Yes,” she answered with great certainty. “Aemon has brought me such joy, and I want him to grow up with siblings.” 

That was all the confirmation Jon needed. His trousers were soon discarded on the floor, and his kisses and touches became more and more demanding. When he reached down to cup Sansa’s sex, he was pleased to find her practically dripping for him. “I want to taste you first,” he snarled as he pinned her to the bed. Sansa gasped but spread her legs almost immediately. Jon trailed his lips down her body until he reached her cunny, and he ran his tongue through her folds, pushing them apart with his fingers so he could lap up her juices and tease her clit. 

“Jon…” Sansa moaned. He was paying special attention to her clit, as the cold of his tongue and breath made her extra sensitive. “Oh gods… Oh… yes… yes…!” Her back arched up off the bed and when she came her release squirted from her. It was something Jon had figured out she could do sometime after their arrival in the capitol. Originally, it would only happen if he was fingering her as well, but over time it happened whenever she climaxed.

Her chest rose and fell heavily. She was seeing stars as Jon climbed on top of her, and tangled her fingers in his curls as she pulled him down for a lazy kiss. 

“Do you want to be on top?” he whispered to her. Sansa nodded and Jon rolled off of her. She straddled him once more and gripped his cock in one hand, rubbing it between her slick folds until the head of his cock glistened with her wetness. He watched her proudly; there was nothing quite like watching Sansa on top of him. She leaned over and pressed a heated kiss to the scar over his chest, before slipping downward to take his cock into her mouth. A hiss of pleasure escaped Jon’s lips and his hips jutted upward. Sansa gagged slightly and pulled back, giving him a look of displeasure. Instead of taking him into her mouth completely, she simply wrapped her lips around the head of his cock and swirled her tongue around it. “Sansa…” 

She pulled back and climbed back on top of him, easing his length inside her cunny. Her hands gripped the headboard as she rolled her hips against his. They both moaned in unison; it had been far too long since they had been together in such a way. Jon’s fingers brushed across her waist and his hands dipped downward to grab her ass. 

“Jon… Oh gods…” Sansa cried as her hands rested now on his chest. She threw her head back as she moaned loudly. 

It had been so long since Jon had been inside her that he didn't think he was going to last much longer. Between how her cunny was tightening around his length and the heady scent of her earlier release filling the air, all Jon could think about was spilling inside her so she could grow heavy with child once more. It vaguely passed his mind that he wanted a daughter; a little girl with Sansa’s beautiful red hair and blue eyes. 

“Fuck… Sansa…” he rolled his hips upward to thrust deeper into her. “I… gods… I'm close, sweetling…” Sansa whimpered and Jon watched as her hand dropped to her clit. The pace of her hips became unpredictable as they raced to their releases. 

“Jon… Jon… Fuck me…!” Sansa panted before a strangled scream of pleasure escaped her lips. Jon thrust lazily up into her a few more times before his seed spilled inside her. 

She lingered on top of him for a moment, savoring the feeling of his seed. When she climbed off of him, she lay beside him, their chests rising and falling in unison. It amazed her how warm Jon felt in that moment, and her mind drifted to the first time they had laid together. How they had been afraid that they would never see each other again.

There was a knock on the door and Jon climbed out of bed, pulling on his dressing robe before answering it. Tyrion whispered to him and Jon sighed. 

“Duty calls,” he told Sansa.

“As long as you come back to our bed, Jon Snow,” she teased, kissing him as he tugged on his trousers.

“Always, my queen,” he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for going on this crazy journey with me! I'm sorry I can't produce more, but it is what it is.
> 
> Thanks guys!!!


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